


A Pair of Gloves, the Scent of Roses

by Swordsandspindles



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Banter, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang (The Witcher), Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, M/M, Pagan Rituals, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post-Season/Series 01, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reconciliation, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bamf!Jaskier, contains both swords and handspindles because I have a reputation to uphold, fake history of Witcherland, mentions of torture, mild spoilers for Blood of Elves, spot the real Midsummer traditions, the bathing trope, veiled suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24828667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordsandspindles/pseuds/Swordsandspindles
Summary: In the bustling days before the Midsummer festival, Geralt is sent into the countryside to deal with a monster - with Jaskier once again by his side. But the bard has not forgiven him, and while he's not hiding his contempt for the Witcher, he is recalcitrant about revealing his true motives for joining him. As the hunt turns into a desperate mission to save an innocent man and the monster is not what is seems to be, Geralt learns a few new things about his old friend and decides to finally attempt to mend the rift between them...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 63
Kudos: 413
Collections: Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang 2020.
> 
> With deepest thanks to my ever-faithful beta readers [kat_fanfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat_fanfic) and [Em](https://drylime.tumblr.com/) for their crucial work on this, for horse facts and hand-holding; to the Pocket Coven for enduring three months of me either crying or bragging about my word count; and to the wonderful people organising this whole thing (sorry I didn’t have the mental bandwidth to be active on the discord); and, especially: to the brilliant [mersephesie](https://mersephesie.tumblr.com/) who DREW A WHOLE PICTURE. A PICTURE. Just for me. You’re going to see it soon, and swoon over it just like I did. It's going to be awesome, I promise.
> 
> This story is complete, and I'll be posting a new chapter over the next six days because reading along with others is fun ~~and I enjoy tormenting my readers.~~ <3

It was deep in the night when Geralt made it back to the shabby tavern in the wrong part of town, sore and tired, up to his thighs in filth and monster guts. Ghelibol was small, but its population just as unwise as any other city’s in the realm when it came to taking precautions against unnatural creatures. This one had been a mutated water spirit, haunting the river district. An old spirit, and wrathful, but Geralt had managed to kill it fast, even though the sight had made him sad. 

The spirit had lived in the water long before humans had come along and forced the river into new tracks. Afterwards, the dockmaster had refused his pay, citing the damage done during the fight. Geralt hadn’t been able to argue with him, fearing he might cause even more damage in the process.  
The Witcher’s mood, accordingly, was grim as he sank down on one of the benches against the far wall of the tavern’s common room, hoping for a quiet night and maybe a lie-in the next morning. 

His eyes were still glazed over from the potions he had taken earlier, pupils widened unnaturally. The dim lights of the smoky candles on the tables and mantelpiece had a hazy quality to them and reeked of cheap tallow. He squinted against the bright flames, each of them with its own halo, and fought down a wave of nausea.

“Don’t go spreading this filth all over the floor,” the innkeeper said with a glare. He motioned to the serving girl to stay back as he deposited a mug of watery ale in front of Geralt and waited until the Witcher slowly dug up a coin from his pouch.

“A room,” Geralt grated.

“You’re free to sit in the common room and sleep under one of the benches,” the innkeeper said. “What in the gods’ name have you been up to? Is that blood?” he demanded.

The Witcher just grunted. He tried to focus on the dirty tabletop in front of him and missed the next words of the innkeeper completely. There was a strange, familiar smell in the air and he wondered how low he had come, that he had become so used to the stench of dirty taverns and cheap ale.

“Oh, don’t bother with him,” another voice said. “He’s coming down from one of his potions, I’d wager.”

The familiar smell was attached to the voice.

“He’ll just need some proper food and a good night’s rest, and you’ll see, tomorrow he’ll be perfectly sociable. Well, when I mean sociable…”

“Do you know him, sir?” the innkeeper asked curiously.

“I thought so, yes,” the voice replied softly.

Geralt managed to raise his head to stare straight into Jaskier’s face. He noticed the innkeeper draw a sharp breath and flinch back a step. His eyes were probably still pitch black then, but Jaskier returned his gaze for a moment with a strange expression, obviously unbothered by his appearance.

“We don’t want his kind here -” the innkeeper started to protest.

“There should be some of that stew left,” Jaskier interrupted him, a hard edge to his voice. He reached for Geralt’s purse and brought some coin out for the innkeeper. The man grimaced, but took the money and retreated.

“Well,” Jaskier said and dropped the purse back on the table. “You’re welcome. See that you don’t antagonise anybody else tonight.”

His gaze flickered over the Witcher’s body, obviously taking in his sorry state. Geralt waited for his exasperated, fond sigh that would force him to acknowledge his wounds so he could submit, grumbling and huffing, to Jaskier’s tending, careful hands.

The bard regarded him for a long, silent moment. Then he dropped his gaze and made to turn away from the table and Geralt finally remembered that this wasn’t what they did anymore. His hand suddenly was on Jaskier’s arm, quite without his own doing. He had not bothered to hide his unnatural speed, but Jaskier’s startled jerk reminded him of his strength, still amplified by the potions, and he gentled his touch until it was the lightest hint of fingertips against the worn linen of his doublet. Even through layers of fabric, Jaskier’s skin radiated warmth. Geralt felt another wave of dizziness rise in him and tried to remove his hand again, but it must have transmuted, mysteriously, into lead because he failed. Everything in him felt like lead. He stared up at Jaskier, mutely, as the world around him went in and out of focus. 

With a pained noise, the bard sat down.  
“I can’t be babysitting you all night,” he said. Then he groaned. “Oh, fuck. Fine. But don’t think this means anything. Eat your fucking food.”

Geralt complied and ate the stew when it arrived, sluggishly, laboriously. Slowly, more slowly than usual, the potions seeped out of his system, to be replaced with a bone-deep ache and a weariness he felt far too young to feel. The terrible haze that had fallen over him faded gradually. The warm food and the ale, of course, helped, and he felt reasonably certain that he wouldn’t throw it all up again in half an hour. Jaskier’s familiar smell covering the stink of the candles and the other patrons helped considerably. 

His fingers were still resting on the bard’s arm and when he looked up, he saw a rueful half-smile on the man’s lips. Jaskier smelled like road dust and fatigue and himself, and there were dark shadows under his eyes where there hadn’t been any before. He wore an outfit Geralt had never seen on him, dark woollen breeches and doublet over a simple shirt, and very fine leather gloves, dyed a deep blue that was a perfect match for his eyes. The clothes were well-tailored, but slightly outdated and obviously worn through, mended on the elbows and cuffs, and faded from the sun. An outfit for travelling, almost modest, for his standards. Not a hint of ruffles or lace or outrageous colours. _Sensible_. The ever-present lute was nowhere to be seen. Geralt very deliberately stopped breathing through his nose and dropped his eyes. He wished the bard would leave, that he would stay, that he could rest his hand on his arm for a bit longer.

“You’re really out of it, aren’t you?” Jaskier said, tilting his head to the side. Something gentled around his eyes. Geralt just grunted in reply. Then a warm darkness crept up from behind his eyes and he let his head sink down on the table, onto Jaskier’s arm.

* * *

When Geralt woke up the next morning, still half sprawled over the table in the inn’s common room, it was with a tremendous headache and a deep sense of embarrassment. He vaguely remembered Jaskier’s presence at his side, the dark shadows under Jaskier’s eyes, his silence. His rueful, familiar smile and the way Geralt had more or less begged him to stay. The way he had clutched at his arm, and that Jaskier had let him. 

Geralt groaned and wondered whether it would be a feasible idea to drown himself in the well out back. Then he stood up, winced as a strained muscle in his shoulder made itself known, and went in search of the bard.

He found him, surprisingly, awake, outside, and ready to leave.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said.

“Jaskier,” the Witcher answered and looked on, curiously, as Jaskier saddled a sturdy white gelding.

“So,” Geralt began again, at a loss for words.

“Look,” Jaskier interrupted him. “I’m glad to see that you are better, would have hated seeing you vomit your liver out and keel over in the public room from whatever stupid potion that was yesterday, but I really must be going. I have an appointment.”  
“Really,” snorted the Witcher.

Jaskier turned the gelding around to lead him out of the stable. It was a good horse, Geralt noticed, well-kept and with a proud tilt to his ears. Rather suited for the bard.

“Do I know her?” he called after the bard with a smirk. Jaskier mounted and looked down at him, his face expressionless.

“Seriously? That’s all you have to say to me?”

“Jaskier...”

“I don’t know what I’d expected, really.”

He clicked his tongue and the horse obediently headed out to the street.  
“Jaskier,” Geralt called after him.

“No. See you around, Geralt,” Jaskier said. Geralt stared after him, baffled, as he vanished down the street. The bard didn’t turn around.

“Fuck,” Geralt said. After a moment, he sighed and trudged back to the inn. He had an appointment to keep as well.

* * *

The mansion of the Baron of Oakbridge was like any other lord’s mansion, Geralt mused. An abundance of unused space, pomp and grandeur, but nothing of real value behind it. The old, high glass windows alone must have cost a true fortune, but he could see the one right in the front hall had a long crack running through it. The stucco on the ceiling was painted gold, not truly gilded, and the horses in the stables had looked grumpy and sour.

The servant that intercepted Geralt on his way to the main entrance had a similarly sour, pinched expression on his face. The crumpled letter Geralt produced to prove that he had indeed been summoned here by the Lord of the manor did not impress him.  
“You were expected here _next week_ by his Lordship,” the man protested and tried to block his way. He was eyeing Geralt with barely hidden disgust. A monster, summoned to get rid of an even worse monster, and certainly not welcome here.

“Next week I’ll be out of the country. Hope his Lordship will find another Witcher on short notice then,” Geralt told him as pleasantly as he could.

The man sputtered at him, but finally agreed to lead him inside, to where his Lordship was presumably located. The inside of the mansion revealed long, dark corridors and tiny furniture that looked as if it would creak threateningly if Geralt had tried to sit in it. The expensive carpets were surprisingly threadbare, and he could spot dark squares where the wallpapers had faded around, he assumed, pompous dark oil paintings of questionable quality that had been removed at some point. Maybe his Lordship was in the middle of redecorating, Geralt mused. There were voices coming from the rooms ahead, and as he was being ushered into what turned out to be the library, he stopped in his tracks.

“Thank you so much for having me. I apologise for the, well, slightly unusual circumstances.”

“Oh, nonsense!” a woman’s voice exclaimed. “A friend of our friends is always welcome here! Especially one of such renown.”

“You are entirely too kind, Madam.”

The woman – Lady Oakbridge, Geralt presumed – had her hand on Jaskier’s arm and was smiling up at him in a way that seemed rather familiar to Geralt. The man standing by her side was also smiling, apparently unconcerned by the Lady’s brashness. He stopped smiling when he spotted the Witcher hovering in the doorway. 

They all turned around and Geralt very firmly did not look at Jaskier, whose expression quickly turned from surprise to displeasure. There was a hint of guilt around his eyes. The sour-faced servant introduced Geralt and hastily withdrew from the room, presumably fleeing from the impending wrath of his Lordship.

“We had expected you here next week,” Lord Oakbridge said, when he had recovered from his surprise. Her Ladyship took a discreet step away from Jaskier, who remained frozen to his spot.

“So I gather,” Geralt said.

“You know the Viscount de Lettenhove, of course,” his Lordship said with a nod at Jaskier.

“He does. Famously so. Although one might say the acquaintance seemed a rather regretful one,” her Ladyship commented frostily before Geralt could reply. Jaskier fidgeted nervously.

“I wasn’t aware you had summoned a Witcher here, dearest,” Lady Oakbridge said to her husband, her voice level.

“Ah,” Oakbridge said, sending a look back to his wife. A complicated emotion seemed to pass over both their faces. “Well, as you are here now, there’s nothing else for it. I suggest we retire to my study – I don’t want to disturb our guest with the unpleasant details.”

“No, please, don’t be concerned on my behalf,” Jaskier said and moved to one of the reading tables to make himself comfortable on it. “Gods know I’m used to the unpleasant details. And I’m rather curious myself about why you’re here,” he added with a sharp look at Geralt.

“I’m here to discuss a contract,” the Witcher answered mildly. “I can leave, but that probably won’t solve anybody’s problems. So our Lordship here better tell me what it is he wants me to do.”

Oakbridge cleared his throat and fixed Geralt with a stern look. The Witcher, who was used to sterner glares, returned it, unimpressed.

“There has been a suspicious death in one of our more remote estates, Herad, at the foot of the mountains,” his Lordship started to explain. “I sent one of my men down there and it turned out that the unfortunate young man, the son of the local miller, bore traces of an attack by an unnatural beast.”

Lady Oakbridge gasped dramatically.

“What kind of traces?” Geralt asked.

“The kind that leaves a corpse with bite wounds all over and not a single drop of blood in it,” the Lord explained.

“A vampire then,” Geralt said, unmoved. “What did your man do with the corpse?”

“He had it burned immediately, of course, right at the foot of the mountain.”

“Good,” Geralt commented. “When did this happen? Were there any more?”

“The man was found not a week ago, on the Ides of June. He was burned the very next day, and there have been none others, so far,” the Lord said. He seemed vaguely uncomfortable and cast a slanted look at Jaskier. “There is a local legend though… about strange spirits haunting the pass in the days before and after Midsummer.”

Jaskier drew a sharp breath at that.

“That legend has nothing to do with this poor young man,” Lady Oakbridge interrupted her husband. “The spirit of Eryr has never taken anyone, and she is not a vampiress.”

“And what,” Geralt asked, as he felt a headache rising behind his temples. “Is this spirit?”

“They call her the Lady of Eryr Pass,” said Jaskier. “It’s some kind of benevolent forest spirit. Wandering the woods, helping out errant shepherds, granting wisdom, the usual. There are tons of stories about her, and none of them mention her draining people.”

The Witcher sent him a sceptical look.

“But a man _did_ get drained. Probably by a lesser vampire,” he said, unimpressed. “So you want me to kill it.”

“Yes, indeed. I understand that is what you usually do?” Oakbridge said. His wife made a moue. 

She was too noble to scoff, but she looked like she wanted to, Geralt thought.  
“Sure,” he said easily. “What I don’t understand is, what is Jask- the _Viscount_ doing here?”

“He is here to find out how much truth there is to the legend. And because he has some skill in handling monsters,” her Ladyship said in a saccharine tone, her eyes flickering over Geralt.  
“This poor creature doesn’t deserve a pointless death.”

“What?” said Geralt.

“Oh no, not again,” sighed Jaskier.

“Again?” echoed Geralt in confusion.

“We all have heard about how you saved those sailors in Bremervoord,” her Ladyship said, turning to Jaskier and ignoring Geralt. “You cannot deny that what you did saved everyone a great deal of trouble, and you managed to forge a lasting peace instead of a prolonged blood feud.”

“Oh,” said Jaskier and rubbed his neck. The tips of his ears took on a slightly reddish glow. “I only did what was reasonable.”

“You know a great deal about unnatural creatures – you have studied them extensively – and, truth to tell, this is why I was so eager to agree to your request in coming here. I have lived with the legends of the spirit of Eryr all my life, and I will not allow some ignorant Witcher to slaughter her like an animal.”

“My dear,” his Lordship interjected half-heartedly. “As much as I would like to honour your family’s connection with that place -”

“So I ask of you now, dear Viscount: save this woman, spirit, whatever she might be,” the Lady was talking fast now, speaking over her husband. “Convince the Witcher that she’s innocent. Find that spirit, talk to her, gods, _sing_ to her if that works. As long as you can prevent more pointless bloodshed. You will be very well compensated.”

His Lordship stared at his wife with an expression that was hard to read. Geralt stared at them both in bemusement.

“So _you_ want me to kill the creature. And _you_ want Jaskier to save it?” he said slowly, looking from Lord to Lady.

“Well,” his Lordship said, and faltered.

“My family came over the pass centuries ago and was treated well by the spirit, and I will not stand for this,” the Lady said with a toss of her head.

“This is ridiculous,” Geralt growled. “You can’t talk a vampire out of hunting its prey.”

“Well, I say it needs to be erased for good,” his Lordship finally decided. Her Ladyship scoffed at that and looked expectantly at Jaskier. The bard sent Geralt a sharp look.

“I am rather honoured by the request, my Lady. I promise I will do the best I can,” he said with an elegant bow. 

Geralt laughed out loud. “Are you insane? You want to reason with it? Well, good luck, I’m not getting involved. Find somebody else for this bullshit.”

“Fine, then leave! Nobody wants you anyway,” Jaskier hissed at him.

“I’m not just letting you walk into this, you’ll get yourself killed.”

“Not your decision.”

“Maybe it would be a good idea indeed if you did accompany him,” the Lady interrupted their hissed argument. “Maybe you will learn a thing or two from your… old friend.”

“I’ll double your payment, Witcher. It will be for the best, dearest,” added the Lord, putting a soothing hand on his wife’s arm. The two exchanged a look.

“Fine,” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier glared at him darkly.  
“Isn’t this going to be fun,” the bard murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In February, I made an off-hand comment about the Witcher Bathing Tropetm and hot springs and then set out to write a fluffy little one-shot that never saw the light of day. I wrote, uh, other stuff instead. Then I stumbled over postings for a Big Bang and a Mini Bang and went: _lol no you won’t be able to write 20k, don’t be silly. You'll never finish it. Let’s do the MINI Bang instead and dig up that thing you started in February, 5k is enough of a challenge!!! You probably won't even manage that!!!_
> 
> Well.
> 
> I am a fool and a dunderhead and should not be trusted with making creative decisions.


	2. Chapter 2

They left the Lord’s manor together, falling into step automatically, and Jaskier turned to Geralt.  
“We are not going to Eryr’s Pass together,” he said.

“Fine with me,” Geralt growled. “Then I don’t have to be around to watch you get disembowelled.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, you were always great at that.”

At that, Jaskier sent him a truly hurt look and Geralt sighed.  
“Look, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to say that.”

“You should really stick to non-verbal growling,” Jaskier murmured.

“Will you tell me what this thing about the sirens was? What was this woman talking about?”

“Well,” Jaskier said, scratching his neck. “Do you remember, a few years back, when we went to Bremervoord and you tried to negotiate between that siren and her lover, because she didn’t want to leave the ocean, and he didn’t want to grow gills to be with her?”

“Sure,” Geralt said. “I remember I failed horribly, and that you fell into the sea, ruined your new jacket and then stole mine.”

“Yes,” Jaskier said earnestly. “Well, I happened to pass by Bremervoord last year and visited her family - they’ve got a whole bunch of offspring now, dozens of grandchildren, all rather lovely and in very fetching variations of green and blue -”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said with as much patience as he could muster.

“Well, they remembered me and invited me to stay a bit. And then there was a storm and one of the trading ships got wrecked, so I thought it would be a good idea if the old girl’s family could help the seamen out. So they did. Turns out our Lord Oakbridge here held shares in that ship.”

“You convinced a bunch of sirens to _rescue_ stranded sailors?”

“Yes.”

“That’s literally the opposite of what sirens do. How the hell did you pull that off?”

“They… took a liking to me?”

Geralt stared at him in bafflement. 

Jaskier shrugged.  
“Don’t look at me like that, you do that stuff all the time.”

“Yes, but...”

“But what?”

“Nothing,” Geralt murmured.

“So,” Jaskier said nonchalantly after they had scowled at each other for a while. “Do you know, perchance, how to get to Eryr’s Pass?”

“No,” Geralt admitted. “And neither do you, huh?”

“I know how to get to Herad. Theoretically.”

“So we’ll need a scout.”

“Who are those ‘we’ you’re talking of? You and Roach? How is Roach, by the by, does she still bite innocent people?”

“She bit you _once_ , and I had warned you she’d do that. Also that was the Roach before this one.”

“Each of your Roaches is an evil beast who hates people,” the bard muttered darkly.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, rather quietly. “Why did you really agree to this nonsense?”

“I don’t have to justify myself.”

“Somebody got killed, you cannot seriously believe that this mysterious spirit isn’t involved in whatever is going on in Herad.”

“I know somebody who has seen her. A colleague.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, and it seems he spent a rather lovely time at the pass, with that spirit. When he returned, he wrote a ballad that was – it was quite good. It was like nothing I had ever heard.”  
There was a sudden rawness in Jaskier’s voice that surprised Geralt.

“Maybe your man just encountered a vampire who had already fed, and hallucinated the good bits. That’s what vampires do,” he said roughly.

“Well, we’ll just have to go and see for ourselves, don’t we?”

* * *

They set out for Herad the very same day, Jaskier on his white gelding and Geralt on his usual brown mare. This Roach was actually rather good-natured, and absolutely unflappable, which was a character trait Geralt appreciated in a horse. The steeds seemed well-matched, with Jaskier taking the lead and Roach trotting happily by his side, half a step slower, keeping an eye out for roadside dangers like dangerously bright flowers, or weird smells.

It felt strange, Geralt mused, not to have Jaskier amble along on foot the way he used to do before… before he finally bought himself a horse. Which was apparently named Pegasus. 

It also felt strange to have him so quiet. The man used to chatter all day long, interrupted only by brief musical interludes, or ramblings about whatever thought had crossed his mind, or incessant flirting at anyone they had encountered. That, Geralt told himself firmly, he certainly did not miss. 

Instead Jaskier rode by his side in silence, as if cloaked in a thunder cloud, ready to drench him in stinging hail at a moment’s notice. It made Geralt even more uneasy than the unclear task ahead of them. At least, he thought, the lute had made an appearance at last, sitting silently in its case, providing a counter balance to the bags strapped to Jaskier’s saddle. The instrument seemed to exude a kind of brooding hostility when he glanced at it.

They had cleared the city of Ghelibol proper by midday, following a road paved with flat, white stones. It must have been ancient, but was kept in good repair, and pointed straight into the direction of the hills. Oakbridge’s mansion sat on the outskirts of Ghelibol, but the city had a number of surrounding villages and hamlets which merged into one another with no apparent order or visible boundaries. It was good farmland, watered by the many tributaries of the Nimnar, and, as summer was fast reaching its height, the fields of ripening spring barley and amelcorn, interspersed with hops and sprawling hedgerows, were roaring with insects. The coveys and overgrown ditches between the fields were exploding with the colours of wild flowers and Geralt almost expected Jaskier to burst into bawdy song spontaneously, like the ridiculous fool he was, overjoyed by the sheer joy and fecundity of summer. 

He didn’t. He stayed quiet.

* * *

Shortly before midday, they overtook two other men on the road walking the opposite direction, towards the city. They were carrying baskets and panniers filled with earthenware flasks and round-bellied green glass bottles wrapped in straw, the trademark of the local vintners. A pair of merchants, Geralt supposed, on their way to the next city to turn a profit from the celebrations. 

Jaskier looked at their wares morosely, then glanced at Geralt.  
“So,” he said with a reluctant air. “Conversation? Yes? No? Three days of silent brooding?”

Geralt almost sighed in relief.  
“Won’t take us three days to get to Herad,” he volunteered. “Two days, I think.”

“Just in time for Midsummer,” Jaskier murmured. “Do you know how they celebrate it here?”

“The usual, I suppose. Bonfires, dancing, drinking. Blessing of crops and cattle and pregnant girls. Setting things on fire and rolling them down hills, so they can set even more things on fire on the way.”

“Ah,” Jaskier sighed. “Old country traditions.”

“The elves use it for divination and fortune-telling. Mages draw power from the sun and the whole,” Geralt gestured vaguely at the abundance of crops around them. “Fertility thing. It’s a good time to collect certain plants and herbs, they’re most potent right now.”

“Hmm. I wonder if our mysterious spirit appears around Midsummer because she is drawn to the fertility rites.”

“More likely because there are more people wandering around the woods, shit-faced.”

“Not everything in this world tries to murder and eat people, you know,” Jaskier said. “Sometimes creatures are just creatures, trying to live peacefully. You used to know that. Oh, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, you don’t care.”

 _I do care_ , Geralt thought. He watched as Jaskier idly combed a burr out of Pegasus' mane, scratching the gelding's neck. The horse twitched his ears in the bard’s direction, pleased. Jaskier was still wearing the blue gloves despite the rising heat of the day.

Jaskier looked over at him and Geralt looked away.

“It’s usually people that create the problems, too,” Jaskier said wistfully.

Then he swore angrily as another rider thundered up behind them, his horse’s hooves clattering loudly on the stones. The rider overtook them at a gallop, heedless of their own steeds. Roach and Pegasus both shied to the side, startled. Roach took a tremendous leap that made Geralt’s teeth clatter hard against each other and Pegasus bucked and danced on his hind legs for a moment, Jaskier fighting to stay in the saddle. The other rider vanished quickly behind a bend in the road, his scarlet cloak blazing like a flame. Behind them on the road, the two other travellers shouted obscenities after the horseman. Their baskets were strewn all over the ground, broken flasks seeping liquid into the cracks between the stones.

“Damn you, you flea-riddled thrice-damned cretin!” one of the men was still shouting as Geralt and Jaskier walked back to them, skittish horses in tow. “The pestilence on you!”

“Are you alright?” asked Jaskier, eyeing the men. Geralt knelt down by his companion, who lay prone on the ground, an arm thrown over his face.

“No! Those were the last three bottles of Redanian ‘31 Vinifera,” the man complained with a moan.

“He’s fine,” Geralt grunted and patted the man’s leg.

“A comet vintage! Geralt, that is a terrible loss, how can you pretend he’s fine?” Jaskier cried out. He reached down to help the doleful merchant to his feet and the man held onto his hand for a moment.

“Say, aren’t you that bard?“ he said, squinting at Jaskier’s face.

“Ah,” the bard answered, trying – and failing – to look bashful. “Can’t deny it.”

“Master Jaskier! We saw you at the Old Boar in Ban Ard this winter gone,” the other man cried out, coming up to shake Jaskier’s hand as well.

“That wasn’t too shabby, how you went and stopped that knight from killing that poor hirikka,” the first man said, brushing dirt and broken glass from his trousers.

Geralt stared at Jaskier and the two men in astonishment. _Hirikka?_ He mouthed at the bard. 

Jaskier just gave him a shrug.

They helped the men – Pettur and Carl, they introduced themselves – gather up the remains of their stock and Geralt offered up some of his salves for their bruises after Jaskier poked him sharply in the ribs. They tethered down the horses, who had finally quieted down and were eager to wander off into the fields, and cleared the worst of the broken glass and clay from the path. 

Afterwards, there was nothing for it but sit by the side of the wine-soaked road, share their provisions, and scavenge what they could from the broken flasks.

“Ah, well,” Pettur said and shrugged. “An early sacrifice to the lady of the hills.”

“The lady of the hills? You mean the spirit at the pass?” Jaskier asked, sending Geralt a triumphant look.

“Oh, don’t you start with your nonsense,” grumbled his companion. “Drivel. Old wives’ tales.”

“Sure, the Kestrel hills, and Eryr, and the area around it. It’s a wood nymph,” Pettur said and winked at Jaskier. “You know how _those_ are.”

“Imaginary,” snorted Carl. 

Geralt agreed with the man, but thought it better to keep his opinion to himself.  
“How imaginary?” he said instead. “Any strange disappearances in the area? Folks gone missing?”

“Not more than usual,” Carl said, scratching his chin. 

“Mind, there used to be an old people in the mountains, even before the elves came. Who knows what kinds of magic they left there. You can still see their ruins in the forest, and overturned statues and such. There’s still a hallowed shrine up there,” Pettur interjected.

“There’s nothing but ruins and stinking ponds on that hill, Pett.”

“It’s a spring of blessing. It’s good luck, bathing there! My great-aunt went there and was cured of her gout. Says the wood nymph used to come down to the harvest festivals when she was a little girl.”

“Your great-aunt also thought there were teeny tiny bugs living in the air making people sick.”

“Fascinating,” said Jaskier and looked at Geralt in defiance. 

The Witcher sighed.

“That’s where you’re headed, aren’t you?” Pettur asked.

“Yes,” said Geralt shortly, hoping to quell the man’s curiosity. “And we need to be on our way.”

“Aw, he is a grumpy one, isn’t he?” Pettur asked. Carl snorted and elbowed him in the ribs.

Jaskier winked at them when he saw their disappointment, but didn’t disagree with Geralt. He graciously accepted their gift of another small wine flask - for the road, and so Jaskier would remember to come visit them in their village, Pettur explained. Carl pointed out some roadside markers that would help them find the way to Herad, and hopefully the mountain pass. 

They parted again, the merchants in the direction of Ghelibol, Geralt and Jaskier to the mountains, leading the horses. Jaskier was happily clutching his wine flask and as Geralt turned back to wave at the merchants one last time, he saw Carl lean over and press a consoling kiss to the other man’s temple. Something twisted in his chest.

* * *

They kept to the stone road between the fields as long as possible, until it got ever narrower and more overgrown and finally turned into nothing more than a dirt path. They crossed into wilder lands, almost imperceptibly, and the orderly fields turned into patches of forest and meadows. The prickly mood Geralt had noticed on Jaskier all morning slowly evaporated during their trek.

It appeared as if the whole country was on the roads in the days before Midsummer, travelling to the various festivals and rites. The countryside was dotted with small shrines, dedicated to various local saints and deities, most of which Geralt had never heard of before. They seemed to be of the usual variation of fertility gods and goddesses, festooned with flowers and green branches, though he thought he could see a surprising amount of owls. 

They tried their luck several more times whenever they encountered somebody, but nothing they learned about the mysterious spirit of Eryr was very satisfactory for either of them. Most people gently refused their questions. In the end, Geralt figured, it didn’t matter. They would find the creature and then learn for themselves what it was. He did not look forward to seeing Jaskier’s face though, when he inevitable learned what Geralt was already certain was the truth about the perpetrator of the gruesome murder.

When evening fell, they found the small roadside tavern Pettur had recommended full of travellers and were denied any room there. Even though it was bustling with activity and strangers merry with wine, Jaskier shook his head at Geralt’s questioning grunt. They quartered themselves and the horses in a barn instead, paid the eager farmer in good coin, and settled in for the night.

Geralt guessed that it would take them another two days to reach the foot of the mountains, and another day to scout the pass out properly. He sat on the lopsided bench they had dragged over to the small firepit and kept an eye on the spitted rabbit he’d caught earlier that afternoon. It didn’t feel like a wasted day. On the contrary, it felt just like one of the many days they had shared on the road, and the way they had fallen back into their usual routines comforted him more than Geralt was willing to admit. 

He surreptitiously watched Jaskier bustle around the barn now, as he prepared a nest for himself out of fresh straw and his woollen cloak, petted Pegasus and Roach and, in general, was very much his old self.  
Satisfied with his preparations, the bard scraped together the last remnants of their flour reserves and was mixing them now with water from the farmer’s well. He knelt by the fire, face illuminated by the flickering flames, and had quickly produced a soft, dark dough, kneading it with practised, easy movements. 

Geralt could see his shoulders working under his shirt. Jaskier had shed his gloves and doublet and had rolled his shirt sleeves up over his elbows, baring his underarms against the cooling night air. There was something off about him, but Geralt couldn’t tell what it was. The dough turned into three small, only slightly misshapen loaves and the sight of his strong hands and wrists seemed to mesmerise Geralt. 

Jaskier pressed the loaves neatly into flat, oblong shapes and placed the flatbreads carefully on a convenient stone near the fire’s crackling heat.  
“Bread. For the rabbit,” Jaskier explained, as if the process of breadmaking was terribly exotic and needed further explanation and Geralt realised that he had been staring at the bard for quite a while. He looked away and grunted. After a moment, Jaskier got up to rinse his hands in the mares’ trough. 

“Glad to see you’re finally prepared for the road,” Geralt said, for the sake of saying anything, anything at all, and turned the rabbit around on its spit. If he could blush, he would be glowing red now. He nodded at Jaskier’s nest.  
“It’s going to be just like the old days, but without your constant shivering.”

Jaskier turned around to him, wiping his hands on his trousers, and slipped his gloves back on.  
“It’s June,” the bard pointed out.

“You were shivering in June. _And_ you are wearing gloves right now.”

“Oh. Oh, you mean on those occasions when I,” Jaskier enunciated slowly, “young and stupid as I was, was travelling with a hunky, mysterious man, and had arranged things just so I could _shiver performatively_ when it was, at best, a mild night?”

“What,” Geralt said, staring back at him. His heart felt like it had skipped a beat.

“I’ll let you sit with that one,” Jaskier said, picked up a brush, and proceeded to diligently groom first Pegasus’, and then Roach’s coat. The mare tried to nibble at his ear and he shoved her gently away. 

The rabbit turned on its spit and dropped fat into the crackling fire and Geralt felt as if he had missed something, some small, but enormously important detail.

They shared the rabbit and the bread. It was a feast compared to some meals Geralt could remember eating on the road. The farmer’s daughter even turned up to bring them a comb of honey and a small bowl of cream, and to make eyes at Jaskier, who declined her gently. 

Geralt decided not to scrutinise his feelings about that any closer and stretched out by the fire instead, head propped up on his saddle. He yielded the cream and honey to Jaskier and they broke open the wine the merchants had gifted them. It turned out to be sweeter and stronger than expected, and soon Jaskier’s cheeks were red and his lips sticky with honey and he ended up spread out by Geralt’s side. 

He seemed to have forgotten his earlier prickliness, and their conversation meandered from topic to topic – or rather, Jaskier's monologue meandered from topic to topic, while Geralt contributed occasional non-verbal agreement. He felt a strange sense of vertigo, as if he had fallen out of time. He remembered the bard as he had been the night before, in the strange, hazy light of the tavern's candles, when Geralt had nearly poisoned himself with his potions by accident, and had clung to the bard as if he had been a mirage.

“So, what about Yennefer? Heard from our dear sorceress lately?” Jaskier asked, voice slightly slurred. “I saw her in Roggeven a few weeks back. She threatened to castrate me, but, you know, in a loving kind of way.”

Geralt groaned and rubbed his neck, uncomfortable. The last time he had met the sorceress they had gotten into a fight over Ciri’s education and after that, there had been nothing but careful, stilted letters between them. The girl was safe in her care, tucked neatly away in the temple of Melitele under the stern gaze of Mother Nenneke, but still Geralt felt unease when he thought of the distance that lay between them now. It was, at the moment, the best option for both her and him, but it – along with Yennefer’s cold letters – still bothered him. He still didn’t understand why the sorceress had agreed to take the girl under her wings in the first place.

“Ah,” Jaskier said wisely as Geralt continued to writhe under his questioning stare, and patted his arm. “The fair Yennefer and the White Wolf. A romance for the ages. Didn’t she listen to my songs at all? Heathen woman.”

“She’s not exactly the type for romance,” Geralt said, strangely peeved. He didn’t especially want to discuss Yennefer, not while Jaskier’s hand was on his arm. Especially not while Jaskier’s hand was on his arm.

“Well, if you tried _your_ version of romance on her, I’m surprised you can still walk.”

“What, should I have brought her flowers?” Geralt groused. “Moonflowers, maybe. They’re pretty rare, she would have appreciated them.”

Jaskier giggled. He was more drunk than Geralt had realised.  
“Devil’s Weed! Only you would bring a toxic hallucinogen to the most beautiful – and most wrathful - woman on the Continent! Seriously, you are beyond any help.”

The Witcher leaned back, scowling.  
“What? Would roses have been better? She would have mocked me for ages. Roses are useless for anything.”

“It’s not about giving a useful gift, you dolt, it’s about the, the _gesture_. A sign of your affection, something that reminds you of her. A rose says: here, you’re as beautiful as this flower, so this flower reminded me of you,” Jaskier said and waved the wine flask around.  
“A fucking moonflower says: you remind me of death and psychosis, and you’re poisoning everyone you come close to,” Jaskier said seriously, insistent. He was flushed from the wine and the fire. 

Geralt could feel the heat rising from his skin as the bard leant closer.  
“It’s not that,” the Witcher insisted. “It’s about knowing someone, and showing that, and going to some lengths to acquire something they’ll appreciate. If that’s roses, sure, but for Yen it would have been moonflowers, and ammonites, and these weird desert plant leafs she puts in her skin stuff.”  
He gestured vaguely.

“Aloe,” Jaskier said helpfully. “I can’t believe it. You’re an idiot, no wonder she ran, too, after you-“  
He bit down hard on the last word before he could finish the sentence and the smile fell away from his face.  
“Truth is, you know shit about romance,” he said with the seriousness of the truly drunk.

“I do know what romance is about,” Geralt argued, unable to keep his mouth shut.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, you don’t. No. Not a bit.”

“Stop this, Jaskier.”

“You wouldn’t recognise romance if it bit you in the arse.”

“Oh, that is rich, coming from you, who literally wrote fucking _ballads_ about my love life.”

“Those were _fictional_. I had to make it all up.”

“What, and that means you’re an expert in what I feel?” Geralt spat viciously.

“Sadly, I am not! Because, because every time somebody gets close to you, you panic,” Jaskier yelled, voice hoarse from the alcohol. “And you run away, and you hurt everybody, just like you hurt us on that fucking moun-”  
Jaskier broke off again, almost panting with rage, and turned red. He stumbled to his feet and went to sit on the other side of the fire, as far away from the Witcher as possible. A sliver of cold shame ran down Geralt’s back and he stared at the ground, mutely.

They finished the rest of the wine in uneasy silence. The quiet between them was filled with sharp edges and prickly corners Geralt was loathe to turn, so he didn’t try to break it. Anything he would have said would have been wrong anyway, as his words always turned out to be stilted and weak and pointless. He wanted to howl and bury his voice in the woods, together with his useless, fucking heart.

“Just once. Just once it would have been nice to have had your cloak, Geralt,” Jaskier said, later, with a very small voice, as the fire had burned down to glowing embers and they both pretended to sleep.

“It’s not even a nice cloak,” Geralt said helplessly.

“It was never about the damn cloak,” Jaskier whispered, almost too quiet for even the Witcher to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A comet vintage, in case you were wondering, is the term for a particularly excellent vintage. The term comes from the 1800s, when extremely warm and propitious summers produced such harvests, but also coincided with the appearance of meteors. People would attribute the quality of the wine to the meteors, in disregard of the fact that comets are, at best, ambivalent about wine.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning they set out in glum silence. Jaskier seemed fatigued and short-tempered and didn’t make any attempt at conversation. Geralt was still mulling over what the bard had said when he had been deep in his cups. 

Witchers weren’t built for romance or love. It wasn’t a thing that happened to them, or which was wise to hope for. He still didn’t know if whatever he and Yennefer had shared had been due to mutual affection or if it had only been the result of the djinn’s interference. The sorceress had made her stance on that unmistakeably clear. And still, she hadn’t hesitated to help with Ciri when he had finally asked her, grudgingly and ashamed and deeply aware of his own shortcomings when it came to the girl’s magical abilities. Yennefer had turned out to be a brilliant and patient teacher, and Ciri was full of admiration for the older woman. But was there love between him and her? He wasn’t able to tell anymore. 

Horses certainly had it easier than humans, Geralt mused, patting Roach’s mane. They either liked each other or they didn’t, and they had no qualms about making their preferences clear.

The Witcher was still brooding over the vagaries of human affection when they came to a low wicker gate barring the way, a boundary which Geralt assumed marked the border between civilised farmlands and the wild mountain regions beyond it. He dismounted to open it and ushered Roach through, who promptly veered to the side of the path to explore the wild herbs growing on the steep hill side.

Geralt raised his hand to pat Pegasus’ neck as the gelding passed through behind. There were white and pink flowers braided in his mane – hellebore, he thought. Jaskier clearly had grown bored during their silent ride but Geralt wasn’t certain if the flowers were meant to be a comment on last night’s conversation, or whether the bard even knew that the plant was medicinal in the right doses, and poisonous in the wrong ones. He was about to comment on it when his gaze fell on the man’s hands. Jaskier had shed his gloves and was still holding onto a fistful of small flowers which he was idly tucking into the horse’s braids.

His hands were covered in scars. Very fine, silver lines were running up and down his fingers, his knuckles, the backs of his hands, almost reaching his wrists. They were straight and precise, cut into his skin with cold precision and obvious intent. Along the nail beds on some of his fingers, the scar tissue was deeper, the skin pale bunched into irregular bumps and folds. Even in daylight, they were barely visible, but a Witcher’s eyes were supposed to catch these kinds of details. How the hell had he not noticed them yesterday?

“What the fuck happened to your hands?” he asked, frowning up at Jaskier, and reached out for him, unthinking. 

Jaskier drew his hands away and flashed him a brittle smile. He flexed his fingers self-consciously.  
“Don’t worry about it.”

“Those are knife scars,” Geralt said and reached for Pegasus’ bridle instead to stop him.

“How very perceptive of you.”

“Jaskier...”

“Don’t Jaskier me. It’s none of your concern. Leave it.”

“What happened?”

“You do know Roach is about to eat that patch of ragwort over there, right?” Jaskier said and nodded at the mare.

Geralt let go of his bridle with a hissed curse and walked over to Roach to pull her away from the plant. It was St. John’s Wort. He stared down at the harmless yellow flowers in dismay and sighed. When they returned to the path, Roach slightly miffed that she had been prevented from gorging herself on delicious leaves, Jaskier had pulled on his gloves again and was already a few paces ahead. He didn’t wait for the Witcher to catch up, so Geralt followed him with some distance.

The scars had disturbed him, but what troubled him more was the way Jaskier had drawn away from him. As if the scars carried a story the bard was ashamed to tell, or as if Geralt wasn’t worthy – or _trustworthy_ – enough to hear it. Somebody clearly had inflicted these wounds on him with malice, focused on inducing pain. A rather large amount of pain. Who? When, and why? A cold shiver ran down Geralt’s spine and he realised that he wouldn’t get these answers, not until Jaskier decided to trust him again.

When Geralt caught up with him, Jaskier had stopped in front of another gate. This one was guarded by a young girl with a short-cropped head of unruly black curls. She perched on a low stone wall by the side of the path and was eyeing Jaskier wearily. A basket of wool fleece was by her feet and a half-filled spindle in her lap. The wool blazed scarlet red in the sun, like a sudden burst of poppies.

The girl saw the Witcher approaching, and mustered him and Roach critically. She might have been twelve, or thirteen.  
“You’re not allowed to go through here neither.”

“Am I not,” said Geralt flatly and stared right back at her. The girl remained unfazed. “And why is that?”

“It’s because the miller’s old bull is on the loose in the upper pastures, and nobody is allowed to go that way, because he’s a mad old bull, and they’ll be skewered, that’s why,” the girl said with an imperious gesture.

“Oh dear,” Jaskier muttered.

“Well, we don’t want to get skewered. We’re headed for the pass of Eryr, do you know a way around the upper pastures?” Geralt asked.

“What do you want at the pass, Witcher?” the girls sniffed, staring at the swords strapped to Roach’s saddle.

“Do you know what Witchers do?” asked Geralt seriously.

An excited glint appeared in the girl’s eyes and Geralt was suddenly reminded of another girl, a very long time ago, who had been excited at the prospect of meeting one of the fabled Witchers.

“Everybody knows what Witchers do. We call you when there is stuff we can’t deal with ourselves,” the girl explained in the condescending tone of a young girl being asked after commonplace knowledge.

“Well, there is something bad up at the pass, and we were sent to deal with it,” Geralt explained.

“ _He’s_ not a Witcher,” the girl said and nodded at Jaskier, who had apparently not passed her inspection.

“No, he’s a bard. Every Witcher travels with a bard. We get easily bored between tasks,” Geralt said.

The girl looked at him for a moment, apparently trying to decide whether he was making fun of her or not. Jaskier rubbed his nose to hide his amused grin.

Then the girl nodded, thoughtfully.  
“I’m not supposed to go near the pass.”

“That’s a wise decision, and you’d do well to heed it,” Geralt commented.  
“So you know where it is? So you can make certain to avoid it?”

“Of course,” the girl said with a sly grin.

“What’s your name, girl?” Jaskier asked.

“Katrinka,” the girl said. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Geralt,” said the Witcher. “This is Jaskier. We don’t need you to lead us to the pass directly, just to the foot of the mountain, and then tell us how to go on from there,” he explained.

“I suppose I could bring you to the crossroads, and be back for the feast. What would you give me for it, Geralt?”

“A quarter crown.”

“A full crown. And I get to ride your horse,” Katrinka bargained.

“A half-crown, and you can ride _his_ horse,” Geralt countered and nodded at Pegasus. Before Jaskier could open his mouth in protest, the girl had jumped up from her perch on the crumbling wall and called: “Deal!”

She gathered up her basket and spindle and, after a moment’s thoughtful hesitation, tied a length of scarlet yarn between the gate and the fence post, apparently to signify a warning. Her guarding duty thus discharged, she clambered back onto the crumbling wall and looked expectantly at Jaskier.

“I hate you,” grumbled the bard half an hour later, when they had back-tracked a good length of the way and undone the progress they had made that morning. Katrinka was proudly perched in Pegasus’ saddle, feet dangling over the stirrups, and pointed out various sights and landscape markings on their way.

Geralt was leading Roach along on her reins, walking by Jaskier’s side.  
“You know we needed a guide.”

“You could have bargained away your own horse.”

“Roach is an evil beast who hates people,” Geralt quoted back at him.

“I thought that was the Roach before that one,” Jaskier sniffed, half-heartedly. Katrinka had started to send him into the bushes to gather more flowers for Pegasus’ mane, and he had willingly complied. The gelding looked like a circus pony now, but Jaskier was smiling, so Geralt carefully avoided any comment.

“It’s Midsummer,” Katrinka explained without prompting. “He needs to look pretty.”

“Should he send a wreath down the river later, too?” Geralt asked.

“No, he’s a horse, horses don’t care about that kind of thing,” the girl said disparagingly.

“A wreath down the river?”, Jaskier asked.

“It’s a tradition around here, or it used to be,” Geralt explained, and then winced internally. Not a topic he wanted to bring up again. “Young women bind wreaths of flowers and put candles on them. In the evening, they light them up and put them into a river to float downstream. The one who catches the wreath is supposed to catch the girl, too.”

“Oh,” made Jaskier and glanced at him. “Now that’s rather romantic. I’m surprised you care enough to have learned about it.”

Geralt gave an unwiling grunt. He had deserved the barb, he supposed.

“Are you going to send a wreath down the river then, Katrinka?” Jaskier asked.

“No,” the girl said with a proud toss of her head and absolute conviction in her voice. “I don’t need that. I'm going to marry the village headman’s daughter when we're old enough. And when my father - ”  
She fell silent.

“When your father what?”, Geralt asked.

“When my father is released again. Because he’s innocent.”

Jaskier sent Geralt a sharp look and the Witcher paused for a moment. _Don’t get involved, you idiot_ , a voice inside him that sounded like Vesemir whispered.

Jaskier frowned at him.

“The headman has said I’m not supposed to see her again,” Katrinka continued, oblivious towards the silent conversation happening between the two men.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, but the Witcher interrupted him.

“What’s your father accused of?” he asked, tilting his head up at the girl. Jaskier glanced at him in surprise.

Katrinka turned around to them on Pegasus’ back.  
“They say he murdered the miller’s son, but that’s nonsense. He was down by the beehives that evening. And the miller’s son drinks and probably fell into the pond and just drowned, anyway,” she said.

“The miller’s son?” Geralt said slowly.

“And my father doesn’t kill people,” she added with a vengeance. “And they made _me_ watch over his stupid bull today, too, and now I’m not even allowed to _see_ her at the feast.”  
Her voice wavered a little.

“Katrinka, do you mean the miller’s son who was killed at the foot of the mountain? Six days ago?” Geralt asked.

“Yes,” Katrinka said. “On the piper’s festival.”

“Oh shit. Geralt,” Jaskier said, turning towards the Witcher.

“And the next cloak I’m making will _not_ go to the miller or his brood again,” Katrinka spat and clutched her spindle. “I will give that wool to somebody who _deserves_ it.”

“I know. But we don’t even know -” Geralt argued, frowning at the bard.

“Don’t start with your whole ‘I’m not getting involved’ again. Don’t -”

“Wasn’t going to,” Geralt interrupted him. He motioned at the girl.  
“Katrinka,” he said. “I need you to bring us to your village headman.”

“Why?” said Katrinka suspiciously.

“Because your father didn’t kill the miller’s son,” Jaskier answered her after he had recovered from his surprise. “And we’re going to deal with it for you.”

* * *

Katrinka’s village turned out to be a small settlement northwest of Herad. It took them barely two hours of sharp riding over field paths and byways no larger than deer tracks to reach it. The house of the village headman was surprisingly large, built from rough hewn stone, with a generous roofed terrace facing the village green, and high, sharp gables. It doubled as the local administrative office, the constabulary’s office and, judging from the smell, a brewery.

The house of a man of many responsibilities, and likely very little time, Geralt thought as the headman himself appeared to usher them into his office. He didn’t offer them seats and leant against his narrow writing desk himself.

He crossed his arms and regarded them with a stony face.  
“Child, if this is about Ewa again...”

“I am not a child,” Katrinka spat. “And it’s about my father.”

“Do you always just grab the first man you find and condemn him as a murderer? Probably saves time,” Geralt said gruffly.

“Excuse me?” the headman said with a baffled expression. “Who even are you? With what right do you turn up here, and stir up trouble?”

“Let me handle this,” Jaskier said hastily, and threw Geralt a look. The Witcher opened his mouth to hiss a barbed reply, but Jaskier squeezed his wrist in warning and stepped forward to lay an equally cautionary hand on Katrinka’s shoulder.

“Forgive us,” the bard said to the headman and bowed politely. “My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, formerly of Lettenhove, currently of nowhere in particular – though you might know me as Jaskier. This is Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher, as you can see. I apologise for his manners. Katrinka you know, of course. Is it correct that the girl’s father has been accused of murder?”

“It is,” the headman said, slightly mollified by the bard’s politeness. Geralt crossed his arms and frowned at them all.

“I’m sorry that we’re sticking our noses into your business, but this man has been wrongly accused,” Jaskier continued.

“So she keeps saying,” the headman sighed. “Look, it’s a sorry business all around, but there’s nothing I can do about it. A man is dead and there’s a witness who saw the both of them.”

“Sir, my companion and I can vouch for her father’s innocence. Whatever your witness might have seen, the miller’s son was not murdered by a man. He was killed by a vampire.”

The headman stared at him in shock, eyes wide. Geralt registered the readiness with which Jaskier seemily supported the vampire theory now, and filed it away quietly to tease him about it later.

“I suggest that you call for your constable and this witness and whoever else might be involved, and we will tell you everything we know,” Jaskier told the village headman calmly.

* * *

The headman, who introduced himself as Houbert, indeed sent for everyone involved, and soon his small office was bustling with people, talking and arguing and spilling out into the roomy hallway beyond. Geralt planted himself against the far wall, out of the way, and pulled Katrinka with him, who seemed ready to cause a scene. The girl scowled angrily when Houbert called the bereaved miller in front of the crowd, together with a second man.

“What is the meaning of this?” the miller groused. “Haven’t we gone over this whole thing often enough? How many more times do I have to endure this?”

“And we’re more than busy with the festival,” added his companion, a slim, nervous man, who glanced at Geralt uncomfortably.

“This is the last time, Miller,” Houbert said soothingly. “We have new voices to listen to in this case.”

“Has his girl cried at your feet again? Have you gone soft now, Brewer?” Miller spat. Katrinka huffed and grimaced at the miller, but Jaskier sent her a quelling look. Geralt hesitantly put a hand on the shaking girl’s shoulder and she subsided.

“Soft or not, Miller, I have a duty towards the town and our folks – all of them. We will listen to what the strangers have to say, and then, possibly, decide anew on what needs to be done.”

“A reckoning, that’s what needs to be done,” Miller grumbled, but fell silent along with everyone else as Jaskier stepped forward to introduce himself once more. The bard’s voice was quiet, but firm, and held the timbre of a nobleman, commanding the attention of everyone in the room as only an actor could.

“I understand that this must be hard for you, and you’re right in demanding justice for your son. But the judgement should be delivered to the person responsible, and not cause yet more grief,” he said to Miller, holding his eye for a moment.

“Say your piece, bard,” the man grumbled.

Jaskier nodded at him.  
“As we already told the headman, we are here at the behest of Lord Oakbridge. His men found a dead body a few days ago, clearly mangled by a monster and drained of his blood. They identified him as your son.”

“I know nothing of this,” the miller groused. He had gone pale. “And Torian here says differently.”

The slender man, Torian, pulled a face.

“And what was it you saw, sir?” Jaskier asked him.

The man shrugged.  
“Piotr and the miller’s boy. Went down to the carp ponds, I saw them. Only Piotr came back. I don’t know anything about monsters.”

“That’s a lie!” Katrinka shrieked. “Father only went as far as the beehives, and came right back -”

“Shut up, girl. Let him handle this,” Geralt whispered roughly. The girl huffed at him and clutched at his arm angrily.

“According to the Baron’s man, they found the body at the foot of the Kestrel Mountains, by the mountain road leading up to the pass,” Jaskier continued. “I take it you looked for the man’s body?”

“We did,” the constable confirmed. She looked at Jaskier sceptically. “We didn’t find anything. But we only searched the ponds, a good mile away from the mountains. We figured he got dragged under, and eaten by...”  
She trailed off with an apologetic look at the miller.

“Why would the girl’s father – Piotr? – murder this man?” asked Jaskier.

“There has always been bad blood between the Millers and the Weavers,” the constable explained.

“Not our fault,” murmured Katrinka softly.

“And the Weavers have always been hotheads,” the constable added.

“But,” Miller said slowly, very slowly. “We did see smoke raising from the mountains. While we searched the ponds.”

All heads turned towards him, and he regarded Jaskier thoughtfully. Then he turned to Torian, brows knitted together in confusion.

Torian gave a shrill laugh.  
“Monsters and vampires! Horsecrap! As if the Baron would give a shit about what happens here, and bother sending a Witcher to help us! A _Witcher_!”

A murmur of assent went through the room, and the headman scratched his neck, clearly torn between admonishing Torian and agreeing with him. Baron Oakbridge was clearly unloved by the locals, even though he owned the land. Maybe precisely _because_ he owned the land. Geralt caught Jaskier’s eye and reached into his pocket to retrieve Oakbridge’s letter and his contract for the supposed vampire. He silently handed it to the bard, who presented it to Houbert.

The headman read it carefully.

“You’re not going to believe these strangers? Let them turn up here, and tell tales like that? Look at him, he’s a storyteller. A professional fraud!” Torian protested.

“I’m certainly a storyteller, and maybe I’m a fraud,” Jaskier said calmly, tilting his head. “But things clearly don’t add up here. The Baron’s men tell of a monster, you say you saw the man by the ponds. Nobody found him, but there was smoke in the mountains, on the day the Baron’s men claim to have burned the body. So what exactly is _your_ investment here? Why would you, purely hypothetically, lie about the miller’s son?”

Jaskier’s voice was sincere and his whole body seemed to radiate gravity. Even the faint shadows under his eyes and his cheekbones gave him the appearance of seriousness, not that of a bard down on his luck. He even looked taller, Geralt mused. Then something in the Witcher shifted and he realised that Jaskier was not, for once, playing a role. He was deadly earnest, arguing for a man’s life, a man he had never met before. Geralt could feel the mood in the room turning as Jaskier and Torian stared at each other.

Here, Geralt thought in amazement, was the man who had convinced sirens to rescue stranded sailors and saved hirikkas from knights. At some point in the last year, Jaskier must have developed a maturity Geralt had never seen in him before this day – or it had always been there, and he had chosen to turn a blind eye towards it. Now, he suddenly could believe that people came to _him_ , to Jaskier, to ask for help with their troubles. And he did, the fool, and had inevitably gained himself a reputation for dealing with monsters – or rather, those falsely accused of being monsters. A strange, warm feeling bloomed in Geralt’s belly.

The headman nodded at the constable.  
“Go get Piotr from the cell, Sonya,” he said softly. The constable nodded and left.

“What!” Torian started to protest.

“I’m not believing anybody yet, I just need to ask Piotr a question,” the headman said sternly.

The man Torian turned red and started sputtering at him, unable to bring out a single comprehensible word. Jaskier exchanged a look with Geralt while the miller stared at his friend in bafflement and suspicion.

Before the situation could get out of hand, the constable returned with a confused Piotr in tow. She apparently had explained the situation to him, and the weaver, pale and tense, bowed slightly to Jaskier. He looked sick and frightened to Geralt’s eyes. Another girl had snuck into the room, trailing after Sonya and Piotr, and slipped beside Katrinka now, who transferred her grasp from the Witcher’s arm to the girl’s hand. The headman’s daughter, Geralt thought.

“We’ve heard some rather disturbing things today,” Houbert said.  
“And I think Master Jaskier’s question is a valid one. So, Torian,” he turned to the man, his voice carefully controlled. “Did you also lie when you told me you had an agreement with Piotr Weaver? Regarding his daughter?”

“A what?!” Katrinka and her father bellowed in unison, enraged.

“I do believe that’s a yes,” Jaskier mused, rubbing his chin, as the two Weavers started yelling at Torian, who shrank back from them. Sonya moved quietly between him and the doorway and Geralt tensed, hoping nobody would do anything foolish. The miller shouted abuse at the nervous man while the headman cried for order.

“Quiet!” Geralt roared over them all. The room fell silent.

“So it’s the girl you’re after?” Jaskier asked the shaking Torian who still tried to edge away from the enraged Piotr.

“Her inheritance, more likely,” the Miller said. “The Weaver’s land and the workshop. After Piotr got hanged, that is. Torian the ragman, finally climbing up the social ladder. For shame.”

Torian just shook his head mutely, refusing to look the Miller in the eye.

“I think we have heard enough,” the headman said tiredly. “Sonya, please, take him away. The magistrates can decide what to do with him.”

* * *

“Melitele’s brow. This would have ended in tragedy if you hadn’t, well, stuck your nose in our business. If I may ask, why did you even care in the first place?” the headman asked, as the crowd had dispersed again, and his daughter – Ewa – had brought a jug of beer for the remaining men. Katrinka was leaning against her father, still scowling fiercely, as if daring anybody to try and take him away again.

“Because it was an injustice that needed to be undone, sir,” Jaskier answered in a level voice.

“And now that it _is_ undone,” he continued, taking a glad sip of the beer. “Is there any reason in the world why those two wonderful girls _shouldn’t_ be betrothed?”

Ewa let out a shriek, dropped the jug and blushed fiercely, Katrinka darted forward to clutch at her arm, and the headman began to sputter in surprise. The following uproar was certainly more severe than the impromptu murder investigation had been. Geralt grinned and slipped out onto the terrace, leaving Jaskier to the chaos he had caused.

* * *

A half hour later, the bard joined him on the terrace.  
“I think I have just arranged a marriage,” he said. “Or rather, the promise of two good apprenticeships for the girls, and a marriage later. If they still want it then.”

“That was well done,” Geralt said and nodded at the hall behind them.  
“You have a way with people. Always had. Probably saved that man’s life.”

“Not to forget the girls’ hearts,” added the bard with a self-satisfied air. He leant against the veranda’s railing, his hands fidgeting on the wood. Out on the village green, people were busy arranging trestle tables, hauling barrels and building a truly enormous bonfire for the evening’s celebration.

“You’re a hopelessly romantic fool,” Geralt said fondly, and Jaskier turned to him with a smile.

“Aaw, you like that about me. It’s my best quality.”

“I think your best quality is arranging country marriages and bragging about it.”

“That, too. Do you think they’ll be happy?”

“They’re teenagers, Jaskier.”

“You’re supposed to say _yes_ , Geralt.”

“...yes.” 

He joined Jaskier at the railing. They stood in comfortable silence for a while, in the lazy heat of the afternoon, letting the sun warm them up after the cool darkness of the rooms inside. Geralt watched as Jaskier pulled of his gloves to flex his hands. He was staring again, and he knew Jaskier noticed him staring.

The bard sighed.  
“It was a few weeks after that dragon hunt,” he said, turning his face to look down at the square again.

Geralt inclined his head, listening, watching his averted face.

“I was drunk out of my mind, in a shithole hamlet in Velen,” Jaskier continued, in a carefully flat tone, devoid of all emotions.

He was breathing slowly and deliberately, in a way Geralt recognized all too well. He watched the tension in Jaskier’s shoulders, his fingers clutching at the railing in a white-knuckled grip. Geralt slid his hand towards Jaskier’s on the railing, just a few inch. A silent offer, to be either accepted or ignored.

Jaskier looked down at his fingers, and Geralt’s hand, and then moved his own a few inch as well, deliberately, to lay its edge, and his wrist, and his underarm, solidly against Geralt’s. 

The Witcher pressed back lightly, and Jaskier took another deep breath.

“There were a half dozen of them – Nilfgaardian soldiers, of course, in disguise – and they had a field day with me. Especially the guy in charge. Really loved his knives. And then our Yennefer turned up, like an avenging angel, and, oh boy, you don’t want to know what she did to those men,” he explained.

Geralt disagreed. He wanted to know what she had done, wanted to hear every gruesome, gory detail of it, and how the Nilfgaardian men had suffered. A sudden wave of rage rose inside him and he clenched his fists until his nails drew blood. He stayed silent.

“She hasn’t lost her healer’s touch either, I’m happy to say. Though she would be mad to hear me say it.”

“She likes to hide that,” Geralt agreed roughly.

“Yeah. Might make people think she actually cares about them. Like someone else I could name,” Jaskier said and Geralt nudged his arm softly in reproach.

“What did those soldiers want from you?” Geralt asked, when Jaskier had fallen silent again.

“You,” he said with a sound that might have been a laugh. “Cirilla.”

“What?” Geralt hissed in shock.

“Oh, don’t worry, I gave them nothing. How could I? For all I knew you could have been dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Jaskier’s voice was tinged with bitterness, and Geralt could do nothing, only stand there. The fury crested in him and finally broke, dragging him down for a moment, constricting his throat. A helplessness came over him, of the kind he hadn’t felt in a long time. He almost felt dizzy with it, with the idea what might have happened if Yennefer _hadn’t_ shown up in time. Jaskier still breathed carefully by his side, arm pressed against his.

“Yennefer never told me about this,” Geralt finally said hoarsely.

“Yeah, because I asked her not to. You had made it rather clear that you didn’t want anything to do with me any more. Or her. So we figured it would be for the best.”

 _And then it was her I had sought out_ , Geralt thought dizzily. _Not him. Why not him? Because I’m a fucking coward, that’s why._

“Does it still hurt?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier took a deep breath and some of the tension seemed to seep out of his shoulders. 

“No,” he said. “Surprisingly, not a bit. Yen really knows her stuff. They’re fuck-ugly though, and I hate seeing them. And she – well, she did her best, but she could only do so much. I’m glad I can even still move my hands. I owe her a lot.”

Geralt stared at him, struck. He suddenly remembered that the bard hadn’t touched his instrument even once in the two days they had spent together. 

Jaskier cleared his throat, and gave Geralt a lopsided smile.  
“Enough with the crying and the sad stories. Let’s go back inside and see if anybody else needs saving today, yeah?”


	4. Chapter 4

Nobody else needed saving, so they collected the horses and set out again for their original destination. The two girls insisted on accompanying them to the crossroads at the foot of the Kestrel Mountains, because, as Katrinka explained with a look at Ewa’s father, she wasn’t one to shirk her duty.

The headman threw his hands in the air, had his own horse brought from the stables as well as a covered basket presumably containing provisions for the road, and instructed Ewa to return home again the next morning, without any detours, delays, or shenanigans. Ewa, grinning broadly, kissed his cheek, hitched up her skirts and clambered up on the horse’s back behind Katrinka.

Jaskier cooed in delight at the girls’ earnest, excited faces, until Geralt hit his arm and dragged him towards his own horse.

They had wasted almost the entire day on this detour, but Geralt found he didn’t mind at all. According to Katrinka, the crossroads at the foot of the mountain would lead them, eventually, up to Eryr Pass, this time from the western side of the hills, not the South as they had originally estimated, so he found this a perfectly acceptable solution.

Pegasus trotted alongside Roach, who was finally happy and insisted on nibbling at her friend’s mane each time they stopped for a short rest. The girls rode a few paces ahead of the men – they had wordlessly agreed to allow them some discreet distance – and chattered like starlings, discussing their plans for apprenticeships and great careers over in the next small town. They didn’t seem sad about missing the village’s celebration, apparently happy to spend the evening in the wilderness, with only each other for company.

Geralt couldn’t help but wonder what Ciri was doing now, and how she would celebrate Midsummer. He assumed Yennefer would bring her to one of the sacred places, to teach her how to draw magic out of the grounds now over-saturated with power and fertility, feeding on the energy and potency of the land. Or maybe she would allow her to celebrate the festival with the people in Ellander or Carreras, the way the older people used to do before the Conjunction of the Spheres, before humans came and invaded the continent, dancing round bonfires and jumping across the blazes, reading their future from the ashes, trying to bend it to their will.

As if fate could be so easily swayed.

Midsummer was certainly the safer option for a young girl compared to Beltane, though. Geralt realised, with a start, that he missed her tremendously.

“You are brooding again,” Jaskier said and nudged his arm. “But in a good way, so I’m not complaining.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched.  
“Then why do you interrupt me?”

“Because I want to hear your broody thoughts.”

Geralt considered this for a moment. Then he nodded at the giggling girls in front of them.  
“Ciri is turning fourteen this year.”

“Ah, of course,” Jaskier said. “In autumn, right?”

Geralt nodded.

“I do hope you realise you need to get her a present.”

“I was thinking about a good dagger.”

Jaskier laughed.  
“Oh, she would love that! She was whining for weeks after they took her precious Witcher’s sword away from her in the temple.”

“They shouldn’t have done that. She needs to keep her training up if she’s serious about it.”

“I think the other children were a bit disturbed by it.”

“Wait,” Geralt said and frowned. “How do you even know about that?”

Jaskier froze, caught out. Then he made a face.  
“Yennefer told me.”

“You and Yen talk?”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, hesitantly.

“When?”

“Occasionally? Alright, fine, we’re writing to each other, all right?”

Geralt stared at him for a moment, trying to process that.  
“What the fuck do you two have to write about?”

Jaskier sent him a look.  
“Politics, mostly. Trying to figure out the kingdoms’ next moves, not to mention the mages’. They terrify me, frankly speaking.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted.

“What, where you hoping we’d be gossiping about you?” the bard teased when nothing else was forthcoming.  
“And I’ve helped her figure out some of Ciri’s, er, curriculum. You know, the non-magical stuff.”

“What, you’re a teacher now?”

“I’m a fucking professor, Geralt. You’ve _visited_ me at uni.”

“She’s not one of your feckless composition students.”

“No, Geralt,” Jaskier said patiently. “She’s a thirteen-year old human child stuck with an immortal sorceress, a grumpy Witcher and currently a bunch of nuns – I might not know much, but I know about _people_ , Geralt. Who have _needs_ and _emotions_ and stuff. And sometimes wish to talk about them.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted again.

“I had three older sisters growing up, and Yennefer’s upbringing was, at best, slap-dash, and at worst fucking _abuse_.”  
There was a sharp undertone in Jaskier’s voice.  
“And no offence, but so was yours,” he added, more softly.

Geralt didn’t know how to refute that.  
“What, and you think you can do better? How many children have you raised?” he asked instead.

“Exactly none, but neither have you, or she. I don’t mean to say you two can’t raise a child – individually or together. I’m just saying that bringing in another perspective can be helpful. The perspective of the lowly human, you know.”

“I’m not certain how human she is, really,” admitted Geralt.

“Right now? Extremely human. And Yennefer thought it would be a good idea to have someone else in her life, as, uh, a lodestar, I suppose. A good example.”

“And she picked _you_?” Geralt said, laughing.

Jaskier waved his hands vaguely, not in the least offended.  
“A... slightly less terrible example. She picked me because – ah, well, I suppose I’m the only regular human she knows. Apart from Mother Nenneke,” Jaskier said, rubbing his neck.

There was something else, Geralt knew from the look in his face. He held his eye for a moment, stonily, trying to radiate stern inquiry. He probably just stared again.

Jaskier blushed and dropped his eyes.  
“It was because there was nobody else she would trust. And there was nobody… there are only very few people you would trust,” he admitted.

 _True_ , Geralt thought. Then another thought struck him.

“Wait, _you_ are ‘Aunt Yen’s pretty friend from Oxenfurt’?” he bellowed.

Jaskier’s surprised laugh rang over the road, clear as a bell.

The girls looked back at them, curiously, and Geralt glared at him in outrage.  
“ _Pretty_! She has a _crush_ on you!”

“Oh, darling,” Jaskier said, still laughing, wiping at his eyes. The horses shook their heads at this disturbance.  
“We nipped _that_ in the bud fairly quick. But I’m flattered she told you. Also, I _am_ pretty.”

“Of course she told me – she tells me everything. She’s using up so much paper it’s a miracle they didn’t have to chop down Brokilon yet.”

“Did she tell you about the red-headed girl she danced with at the harvest festival?”

“What?”

“She wrote she was worried how you’d react, so she kept it quiet.”

“Oh,” Geralt said, struck speechless. What else wasn’t she telling him? What else was _Yen_ not telling him, he wondered numbly.

“I would have liked to be consulted about this,” Geralt muttered.

“I know. Sorry?”  
Jaskier tilted his head at him with only a hint of remorse, all big eyes and sincerity and a grin lingering in the corners of his lips, and Geralt knew he had lost.

If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t mind quite that much.  
“It’s fine,” he sighed. “Anything else you two are keeping from me?”

“What, us? Oh, no, nothing. Except for all the crimes we commit together. Heists and kidnappings and all that.”

“Of course.”

“Overthrowing governments. Sowing social unrest.”

“As you do,” Geralt agreed, mollified.

* * *

The girls led them cross-country now, confidently following no apparent path except Katrinka’s memory of the land. She led them unerringly through fields and brambles, working absentmindedly on her scarlet yarn all the while.

Jaskier grimaced slightly whenever they had to set over a low hedge or fence, and cast worried glances at the sun which was heading for the horizon now. Then they entered a small copse of beech and ash trees, climbed up a steep hill and suddenly the woods drew back again and they were on a promontory overlooking a small, crescent-shaped valley. A narrow, rocky path led down into it and Katrinka made a satisfied noise.

Directly above them, the Kestrel Mountains loomed, covered in dark, shadowy forests, their highest peaks dotted in white. An enormous oak tree stood in the centre of the valley, throwing its shadow over a crossroad. One road bisected the valley neatly, running parallel to the mountain range, the other snaked out of the valley and up into the mountains and, presumably, on to Eryr Pass.

They made their way down slowly, leading the horses, and as they did, the smoky, acrid smell of burning wood wafted towards them. Geralt grimaced slightly at the intensity of the smell, but Katrinka gave an excited shout and dashed down the rest of the road. Two charcoal piles, covered neatly with brushwood and sods of earth, were erected a good distance from the crossroads, smoking steadily and filling the air in the valley with their smell.

Katrinka flew into the arms of one of the charburners, an old, grizzled man with an enormous moustache who enveloped her in a bear hug that lifted her clear off the ground. She freed herself, embarrassed, and turned to wave wildly at Ewa and the others.

The man turned out to be an uncle of the girl, and while he and his companion – a younger man with a mop of red hair – eyed the Witcher suspiciously, they nodded at Jaskier friendly enough when they saw his lute. They appeared strangely unsurprised to see a bard here in the wilderness.

Ewa dashed away from the old man, laughing, and hid behind Geralt’s back as he threatened her with a hug as well, while Katrinka immediately launched into the tale of Piotr’s miraculous rescue and rehabilitation.

“A vampire?” the man with the moustache – Michal – cried out and exchanged worried glances with the other man. He had Katrinka tucked under one arm and ruffled her head. “Well, that explains it. Been a lot of goings-on all damn week up there.”

“Wouldn’t have thought the Baron of all people would send a Witcher to deal with this,” the redhead muttered. “Would be the first time he’d be dealing with anything going on out here.”

“Dimi,” Michal hissed at him and glanced at Geralt with a hint of worry. The Witcher shrugged at him as good-naturedly as he could.

“And you,” Michal said to Jaskier, looking him up and down. “Hunting your own quarry, are you?”

“What?”, Geralt asked, frowning.

“Er,” Jaskier said, avoiding Geralt’s questioning look. “Ah, no, no. Just riding along with him.”

“Sure,” Dimi grinned and winked at him. “No other reason a man with a lute walks up to the old springs on the hill. Better keep an eye on him, or you’ll lose him to the lady when you go out hunting for your vampire,” he said to Geralt.

Geralt frowned at him in confusion. “What do you mean, lose him to – ”

“You know, Geralt,” Jaskier interrupted him. “We do carry very delicious food, and I dare say we need some rest before wandering up any hills. What do you say we all shut up, sit down, and have a bite? There’s enough for our new friends, too, I wager.”

“Yes!” Ewa cried out. “And afterwards, you have to sing us some songs!”

“Ah, yes. Maybe, if there’s still time,” Jaskier answered evasively, motioning for Geralt to retrieve the basket from Ewa’s horse. The colliers made agreeing noises and Dimi gently took the three horses from them to set them up at the small pasture by the forest’s edge, where the collier’s own shaggy ponies eyed the new guests with distrust.

“What is going on here, Jaskier?” Geralt asked him as the bard unloaded their spoils under the branches of the oak.

“Later? Please,” Jaskier answered. He smiled at him, chipper and bright and entirely false.

Katrinka skipped up to them and held out her hand to Geralt, grinning broadly, and the Witcher sighed and dug out his pouch to count the promised coin into the girl’s hand. The colliers brought over a good part of their own supplies and a jug of surprisingly good ale. They made the girls repeat the story of Piotr’s rescue again, and shouted in delight when they learned about their plans for a betrothal.

Geralt ate in silence, leaning his back against the warm bark of the tree trunk. It felt nice, sheltered under the branches of the old oak, listening to the men and the girls around him exchange tales and gossip. They needled Jaskier with questions about monsters and the bard happily obliged, spinning ridiculous stories of their adventures. When the girls started to beg for a song, he shook his head and refused with a crooked smile.

Geralt, a strange feeling writhing in his guts, abruptly got up, retrieved the lute from where it rested by their saddle bags and returned to the oak to drop the instrument in the bard’s lap. They all stared at him for a moment as if they had forgotten his presence. Then Jaskier broke into a soft, adoring smile that lit up his whole face and crinkled the skin around his eyes, and Geralt had to look away.

He sat down again, his back pressed against the oak’s trunk, closed his eyes and listened as Jaskier opened the lute’s case, stripped off his gloves, and started carefully tuning the strings.

He played old songs for them, long winding ballads and strange, slow mournful tunes he had brought back from different parts of the continent. The colliers gradually drifted away to start up their work at the smoking kilns again. At last, the girls satisfied from listening and singing along, Jaskier fell silent and slipped into a quiet, tinkling, aimless melody.

* * *

When Geralt opened his eyes again, the sun was hanging low on the horizon, but her last beams were still playing over the oak’s branches and leaves. His heart was filled with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. There was a discontented frown on Jaskier’s face, and Geralt shuffled around until their shoulders met. Ewa had stretched out in the grass a few paces away from them, Katrinka’s head in her lap. They had both fallen asleep in the late afternoon sun.

“Will you tell me what’s really going on here?” Geralt asked quietly.

The bard sighed and stilled the lute’s strings.  
“I’m not as good as I used to be,” he said evasively. He flexed his scarred fingers and smiled at Geralt crookedly.

“Still pretty fucking good,” the Witcher said. He resisted the sudden urge to cover Jaskier’s twitching hands with his own. “And you can still sing to put a nightingale to shame.”

“Aw, stop, you idiot,” Jaskier said and flushed slightly, pleased.

Geralt nudged his shoulder.  
“So what’s this really about, all this talk about springs and spirits and mysterious ladies up at the pass? Assuming it’s not a vampire after all.”

Jaskier sighed.  
“I told you. A colleague of mine went up there, Raul. A nice fellow, but mediocre at best. When he returned, he won every single prize between Kovir and Sodden with ballads so stunning nobody even got close to him. Nobody could explain how he had gotten so good all of a sudden. So, naturally, I hunted him down to, hm, learn about him a bit.”

“You were jealous of his wins and tried to either get him into bed, or steal his unwritten ballads. Or both,” Geralt translated.

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” sniffed Jaskier, without even trying to deny Geralt’s conclusion.  
“Anyway, Raul wasn’t… yeah, ok, he wasn’t interested, but! He told me what had happened. He had heard all those stories, same as we did – the healing springs, the spirit granting wisdom, old magic. Ancient cults from before the Conjunction of the Spheres.”

Geralt grunted in acknowledgement. He had heard stories of the ancient cults in Kaer Morhen as well, but they were as unreal as any stories about gods – intangible, impossible to prove, and thus unimportant for the Witchers’ work.

“And there’s also… well, some of the old cults apparently worshipped a goddess here, one of poetry and music. So Raul went out to find her, and find her he did.”  
There was a strange, almost feverish gleam in Jaskier’s eyes.  
“Geralt, he described it as ‘if music itself had come alive, and poured into me like molten gold’. I can’t imagine what he must have witnessed here. Something fundamental in him was changed, and he was writing music like a man possessed.”

“So it’s an ancient cult place for a dead goddess of music and healing. That’s the reason you came to Ghelibol in the first place.”

Jaskier shrugged, staring down at his fingers.  
“I had received a letter from the Baroness, inviting me here. I thought it was worth a try.”

“And you want to go up there and – what, bring her a sacrifice?”

“I thought she might be able…”

“To heal what Yen wasn’t able to heal?”

Jaskier nodded.

Geralt remained quiet for a bit.  
“So what’s the catch?”

“Ah,” Jaskier made, and pulled a face.

“These kinds of stories never end well, Jaskier,” Geralt said, very quietly.

He felt the bard shift by his side.  
“Raul vanished a few months ago. Nobody knows what happened to him, but I’m quite certain he went back to the pass. But this time, he didn’t return again.”

Geralt drew in a sharp breath.  
“And you were still willing to take that risk.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier said. “It’s not… it didn’t exactly discourage me from the idea, to be honest.”

There was a stone in Geralt’s belly that suddenly made it hard to talk.  
“Why?” he managed.

Jaskier took a deep breath.  
“Because, for a time, my life really, really sucked, and I was very, very hurt. And the idea of just slipping away, into a strange magical realm, where a literal goddess would inspire me to unknown heights of music and poetry, and I had nothing else to worry about? Who would take – this away from me?”  
He stretched out his hands between them and wiggled his fingers.  
“Yeah. Really, really appealing,” he said.

“You never planned on coming back,” Geralt said.

Jaskier laughed and looked away.  
“Oh, but it would have been such a fitting end for a bard, no? To just - “ he made a fluttering gesture, “ - vanish into legend. Become a companion to old gods and mysterious spirits. I would have come back, mind, after a century or so.”

Geralt grunted. He had grown cold despite the lingering summer heat.  
“Yen would have been furious with you,” he said.

“Probably,” Jaskier said softly.

Geralt could sense him watching his face, searching for something. He wasn't quite certain what it was. He’d never know how to give him the things he wanted, Geralt thought. At their feet, the girls slumbered on and the horses wandered around their impromptu pasture and the coal piles smoked and Jaskier’s hands, scarred and slender, were motionless on his lute. He was still looking at him. Geralt grunted and got up to head to their heap of saddle bags again.

“What is that?” Jaskier asked curiously as Geralt returned to him under the oak and knelt at his side. He had started packing up the lute and the crinkles around his eyes were gone again. Geralt uncorked the vial he had retrieved and motioned for Jaskier to give him his hand. The bard complied, head tilted in question.

“Wild rose oil. Reduces scarring,” Geralt grunted as he slipped Jaskier’s signet ring off his finger. He carefully poured a tiny amount of the oil on the bard’s hand and started massaging it into his skin. The scars looked like cracks in a plate’s glazing, white and alien. He methodically worked the oil into the back of Jaskier’s hand, the muscular flesh at the base of his thumb, his knuckles, the tips of each finger. He still hadn’t looked up at his face, but he could hear him draw a shuddering breath and felt the warmth radiating from his skin. His pulse was spiking under Geralt’s fingers.

“So roses _do_ have a use after all,” Jaskier said lightly. “You never do that for your own scars.”

Geralt gave an awkward shrug.  
“Don’t mind the sight of _them_.”  
He reached for Jaskier’s other hand.

Jaskier allowed it, but took hold of Geralt’s fingers for a moment to squeeze them tightly before motioning for him to return to his ministrations.

“I never took enough care of you,” Geralt tried to explain. It sounded wrong in his ears.

“I can take care of myself,” Jaskier replied mildly.

“True,” Geralt admitted. “But I could have made it a bit easier. You… you deserved better than all this.”

“Hm,” Jaskier hummed in agreement. His fingers were twined around Geralt’s and the Witcher just held onto them now, running his thumbs over Jaskier’s scarred knuckles.

“And you… there is more to you than just a lute and a pair of clever hands.”

“Clever hands, I like that,” Jaskier said.

“All you do, the things you do,” Geralt said haltingly, casting around for words. “The sirens, the hirikka, what you did for that girl’s father. It’s. I. There’s no one else like you.”

Jaskier squeezed his fingers in encouragement.

“You are everything you need to be. Don’t go looking for that old god. She won’t let you go again,” Geralt pleaded.

“Alright,” whispered Jaskier, a faint tremble in his voice.

Geralt finally looked up at him. There was something terrifyingly soft in the bard’s expression as he gazed back, wide-eyed and with a flush to his cheeks. They sat there for a long moment, hands still tangled together.

“I think you missed a spot here, pet,” the bard finally said, aiming for a haughty tone and falling just a bit short, turning his hands over to offer his flawless palms to Geralt.

Geralt’s lips twitched.  
“I think you’ve had enough. Do you have any idea how expensive this oil is?” he said, running his thumbs slowly, deliberately, over Jaskier’s open palms and wrists nonetheless. They were very soft under his callused fingers, rendered even softer by the oil. The oil's film on their skins glistened in the sunlight and the air between them had grown heavy with the scent of wild roses.

“Oh, but I so enjoy your grovelling, dear Witcher.”

“I do not grovel.”

“You _so_ do, darling. It’s a good look on you,” Jaskier purred with a smile.

Then he pulled his hand free, tilted Geralt’s face up, and kissed him. His lips were warm and soft against Geralt’s and he tasted faintly of the ale they had shared earlier. He kissed him slowly, licking and nipping carefully at his lips until Geralt opened his mouth to him with a muffled moan.

His heart had started racing. Jaskier made a pleased sound and pressed closer, slid his hand into Geralt’s hair and the other under his shirt, grazing his belly. A sudden gust of heat welled through Geralt, the scent of roses became overwhelming, and then suddenly something in his chest gave a painful lurch and the heat tipped over into a blaze of panic, flaring through his abdomen.

The Witcher reeled back and stumbled hastily to his feet, away from the bard, who almost tumbled over himself, hands still stretched out for him.

The softness in Jaskier’s eyes bled away into shock and then pain, and before Geralt could say anything else, or do anything, the bard had jumped up as well. His face was a rictus of agony and defeat and he backed away from Geralt, clutching his lute. He stumbled towards the horses’ little patch and started to undo Pegasus’ tether with shaking hands.

“Jaskier.”  
Geralt followed him with halting steps, but the bard just hissed, raising a hand as if blocking a blow. Geralt lurched to a halt.

“You can’t just... _do_ this to me, Geralt. You do this over and _over_ ,” Jaskier pressed out from behind clenched teeth. “Fuck you. Make up your mind.”

“Jaskier...”

“No! Fuck. I... fuck,” he cried, tears of rage welling up in his eyes. Then he was up on the gelding’s bare back, turned him around to the crossroads, and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feast your eyes on [mersephesie's](https://mersephesie.tumblr.com/post/622194197506686976/my-illustration-for-swords-n-spindless-lovely) brilliant art, and go tell her she's amazing!


	5. Chapter 5

Geralt stared after him, fear and guilt and anger churning in his guts. He stalked over to their packs, gripped one of the bags at random and hurled it into the trees with a furious yell. It landed against the rocks with a sound of breaking glass. His mind felt hazy from the fear-spiked adrenaline in his body that had nowhere to go. There was no creature to thrash, no undead creature to hack apart, no monster but himself, but he grabbed his sword – the iron one – anyway and shook it free of its sheath. 

Under the oak, the two girls sat up confused and sleep-dazed, woken by his outbreak. They watched him yell and hack at the bushes by the pasture, until he had exhausted himself. They probably thought he had gone mad. He dropped the sword and just stood there, hand pressed over his face, panting heavily.

“Are you alright?” Katrinka asked and came tentatively closer, Ewa at her heels, clutching her hand.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Geralt roared and the girl jumped away with a shriek, stumbling into her friend. “Why can’t people just leave me the hell alone?”

 _Don’t try to make friends with them_ , the voice in his mind whispered. _Everything you touch turns to ash. Yen, Ciri, Jaskier. Jaskier’s face on the mountain, Jaskier’s face under the oak tree. Make them stay away, they’re better off without you._

“What the devil is going on here?”, Michal called from where the colliers were returning from the forest, drawn by the noise and commotion. He put an arm over Katrinka’s shoulders and glared at the Witcher. The girl leant into him for a moment.

“I told you, that one would be nothing but trouble,” Dimi muttered darkly. The man frowned at Geralt, who scowled back at him. Two woodsmen would be no challenge for a Witcher, but he didn’t try to move away from them. The rage that had gripped him just a moment ago was fading quickly, leaving nothing but bleak fatigue behind.

“Where did your friend run off to?” Ewa asked. 

Geralt just grunted, nodding to the mountain road. He turned to pick up the blade he had dropped to ground. There was a shallow cut on his wrist, slowly soaking his cuff in blood. He stalked over to where their packs were strewn over the ground. 

Dimi made way for him, looking uncertainly at Michal, who shook his head. Katrinka gave a little gasp and shook off her uncle’s arm to follow after Geralt.  
“He went up the pass? But what about the vampire?”

Geralt grunted. “It can have him, for all I care.”

“You don’t mean that!” Katrinka said. She sounded more shocked by his words than by his violent outburst earlier. “You have to go and -”

“I have to do _nothing_. I owe him nothing and I owe you nothing,” Geralt interrupted her. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

“But that’s what you _do_ , you help people and creatures -”

“I _kill_ creatures,” Geralt spat. “And I get paid for it. That’s all I do. I hate to destroy your romantic notions but that’s all there is to it. We kill, we get paid, we leave, and everybody else would be wise to stay the fuck away from us. You’re just as bad as he is.”

“He saved _my father_!” Katrinka yelled at him, sudden fury overwhelming her. Ewa gripped her elbow.

“If you don’t go after him, we will,” Ewa said, bristling at him.

“You will do no such thing,” Michal interrupted her. “Leave the Witcher be, girls. And the boy will be just fine, he’ll run into the Baron’s men soon enough.”

Geralt stared at the girls, numbly, at their linked arms and the red bits of woollen fluff sticking to Katrinka’s shirt.

“You two will stay in the camp, there’s enough unholy creatures creeping around in the woods as it is. No running off into the woods after bards, or to leave any offerings to the wild ones. Yes, don’t think I don’t know about _that_. And you, Witcher,” Michal turned to Geralt, “will leave. You’ve done enough damage - “

“The Baron’s men?” Geralt demanded. 

Michal frowned at the interruption. “Sure, Lord Oakbridge’s men. A whole pack of them. They’re up at the pass, probably waiting for y-”

“How long have they been here? Why didn’t you say so before?“

“What? I don’t know, we’ve barely been here a week ourselves.“

“Turned up the day just before Piper’s Day. On the Ides,“ Dimi volunteered. He was still glaring at Geralt in hostility. “I know because the shepherdess over on the south downs saw them arrive – I mean, a friend of mine saw them,“ he correctly himself hastily, glancing at Michal, who just sighed. This seemed to be a long-standing point of contention between the men. 

Geralt didn’t care.  
“Did you or she see any fires being lit here on that day? Large fires?” he asked, turning to the younger man.

“I don’t know, she didn’t say. They bothered her, so she wasn’t keen on sticking around much, if you know what I mean. There was our fire, of course.”

“Those men, the men that bothered her, you’re saying they’re the Baron’s men – any of them wear a red cloak? Riding a dark horse?”

Michal laughed out loud and spat on the ground. The girls watched them in growing confusion.  
“Yeah, _that_ asshole, it’s their leader. I knew you knew them. He’s been coming and going all week. What’s going on here, Witcher?”

“Fuck,” Geralt whispered as comprehension dawn on him. An icy shiver ran down his spine, making the soles of his feet prickle and his stomach clench. Then he turned and ran for his horse.

* * *

Roach thundered up the mountain path, infected with Geralt’s fear, and shied and shook her head at every curve and corner. He was holding onto her bare back with pure willpower, one hand buried in her mane, the other clutching his sword.

 _Idiot_ , he berated himself, _one minute to get her saddled up proper wouldn’t have made any difference. You could have grabbed your potions. You behave like you’re sixteen._

The path dipped under the canopy of the woods and he had to bow low over the mare’s neck, boughs whipping his face, stones flying up from her hooves. He pressed on as fast as he dared on the narrow path, trying not to think of what he might find at the pass. It was late, but the Midsummer sun was still simmering low on the horizon, casting deep shadows under the trees. 

The path went from narrow and soft to narrow and stony, overgrown with tree roots and Geralt had to slow Roach down to a fast trot. The mare set her feet carefully, bounding over rocks and roots in great strides and Geralt grit his teeth.

If only he had paid more attention, he thought. If only he hadn’t allowed himself to become so distracted by the girls, and by Jaskier. A poor excuse for a friend, really. _Trying not to hurt him, and now look what you have done._

He should have noticed something had been off about the Baron’s request, the Baroness’ sudden desire to save a random monster from certain death, and the strange coincidence of Jaskier’s search for a wild, old god in these mountains. The obvious dilapidation of Oakbridge Hall, the sorry state of his estates and the people’s open disdain for the man. The rider in the scarlet cloak – the cloak Katrinka had made and sold to the miller who had handed it down to his son – racing between the men on the pass and the Baron’s mansion. He must have been carrying messages: messages that a Witcher was on his way to the pass, one week early, accompanied by a bard that had been meant to arrive alone. And Jaskier – Jaskier was heading straight into an ambush set for Geralt.

On his left, a small path branched off from the road, overgrown with prickly gorse bushes and juniper, rosemary and sage. The fragrant scent of the plants rose in the warm evening air, and Geralt hesitated. The smell was heavy, cloying, but it wasn’t the smell of crushed plants, and he could see no signs of recent passage, no bent branches or trodden leaves. He urged Roach on.

They left the shadow of the wood and found the path edging dangerously close to the brink of a ravine. Geralt could hear a brook running at the ground of the small valley and over the tinkle of the water, a horse whinnied. Roach looked up and twitched her ears happily in the direction of the sound as she recognized her friend’s voice. They had to be somewhere in front of them, further down the rocky path. The trail on top of the ravine was a bottleneck, running along a steep rock wall on one side, and the dangerous plunge into the ravine on the other.

Geralt jumped from Roach’s back, led her a good ten metres back up the path and looped her reins over a long-hanging branch, loose enough that she would be able to free herself in an emergency. He laid her hand on her temple and cast the sign Axii to calm her down and keep her quiet. 

His only advantage lay in surprising the men, and if Roach decided to call out for Pegasus in an unfortunate moment, that advantage would be gone. He sent a thought to any god, old or new, which might have been inclined to listen to a Witcher’s prayer, and started to climb down into the ravine, hoping the path aligned with the valley long enough for him to come upon the men from below or behind.

The brook at the bottom of the ravine was shockingly cold, fed by the glacial springs further up the mountain, and came up to Geralt’s knees. He clenched his jaw, took a few bracing breaths and started waded through the water as fast as he was able to. 

The cacophony of the stream masked the noises he made, splashing through the icy water as it soaked through his boots and trousers in seconds. He marched on, doggedly, waiting for his flesh to go numb in the cold. He let the waters wash over and around him and felt it wash away his panic and fear as well. His pulse was beating in his veins, steadily like faint drums, and he focused on setting one foot after another in the slippery rocky bed of the river, listening intently for any human sounds above him.

He would find him, he thought. He would find him, and apologise, and to hell with Vesemir’s lessons.

“I’m so sorry to disappoint, but whatever it is you want, I really can’t help you.”  
Jaskier’s voice cut through the din of the water, faint but unmistakable. 

A note of fear ran through it and Geralt grit his teeth. They were above him and a few metres back, so he started climbing up the ravine’s steep wall again, emerging out of the water, slowly and one-handed as he was while carrying the sword without its sheath, picking his handholds carefully. The valley was dark and already dipped in shadow, but the Witcher didn’t mind: he could see perfectly in the dim light and the men wouldn’t be able to see him at all.

He came up behind them exactly the way he had hoped – maybe there was a god with a soft spot for Witchers after all – and crept through the undergrowth. There were five of them, spread in a loose half-circle around their prey. One of them had dragged both Pegasus and a second horse to the side of the patch and was struggling to hold on to the recalcitrant animals.

Jaskier was facing them with nothing but the lute in his hand, but he had managed to put his back against a rocky outcrop. He was utterly trapped. Geralt knew he was playing for time, but had no possible chance against the men. There was a bruise blossoming on his cheek and his lip was split and bloody, and Geralt felt something in his mind go very, very still.

“I know nothing about any Witchers, witches, sorcerers or similar creatures. Now, do you think we can solve this like civilised people?” the bard babbled.

 _The bearded one is close enough to the ravine that Aard will shove him right over the edge. The one to Jaskier’s right will go next, then the man to his right_ , Geralt thought detachedly. He felt his heart slow down and the muscles in his shoulders relax as his training took over. He carefully wiped his wet hands on his trousers and gripped his sword more securely. _The one holding the horses last. If they get loose, they’ll panic and get in the way._ He took a deep breath.

The men looked bored, the way soldiers do when they’re sent to do a task they find to be below their dignity. The kind of boredom that could become dangerous very quickly when one dealt with men accustomed to casual violence.

“No,” said one of the men and took a step towards the bard. A scarlet cloak was slung over his shoulders and glowed like embers in the evening sun. Geralt could see why the man had found it worthy to steal after murdering the poor bastard of a miller’s son. “I think we’ll cut up your pretty face and see how loud you can scream.”

 _That one_ , Geralt decided with a malicious grin. _That one can die last, slowly._

“How about I do all the screaming _without_ you cutting me? Save you the trouble? I have excellent range and volume. I’ll scream as much as you want,” Jaskier said, flinching back. His back hit the rock wall.

“Nah,” said the man in red and spat on the floor. He held a dagger by his side, low and deceptively relaxed. Geralt could see Jaskier watching that dagger with nervous eyes.

“I want to see blood tonight. A li’l sacrifice to those pagan elvish gods, how about that?”

“Good idea,” Geralt growled, and charged. His sword went through the ribcage of the first man with a crunching sound and he turned and cast Aard in the direction of the bearded man before the first one had time to scream. 

They both fell, one tumbling into the ravine, the other crumpling to the floor, and Geralt whirled to face the next one. The man managed to bring up his own sword out of pure reflex and parried his blow, but staggered back under its force and Geralt twisted his blade around and sliced the man’s neck open with a furious grunt. 

A spray of warm blood splattered on his face. There were screams around him, but he tuned them out. The man who had threatened Jaskier lunged at Geralt with a yell, but the Witcher stepped aside and kicked his legs out from under him in a brutal, precise movement, dislocating his knee cap. The men dropped the dagger and went down screaming as Geralt turned to the last one, only to run into Pegasus. 

The soldier holding the horses had finally grasped the situation and had sent the animals in the Witcher’s direction with vicious slaps against their hindquarters. Geralt managed to get out of their way at the last moment, stumbled over the rocks and went down to his knees. The animals galloped up the path in blind panic. Then the man was looming over Geralt, a battle axe raised for a crushing blow, but a Witcher was faster than a human. 

Geralt’s blade slid into his guts, driven by his sudden leap upwards, while the man was still getting ready to strike. The man stilled for a moment, made a gurgling sound and a gush of blood dripped from his lips. Then he slid off Geralt’s blade and onto the floor.

Geralt turned, his feet slipping in a pool of blood, searching for the man he had kicked to the ground earlier. He advanced on him, slowly. The man whimpered and tried to crawl away, scrabbling backwards over the slippery rocks, dragging the precious scarlet cloak through blood and filth.

“Stop!” Jaskier cried out. “Enough! For fuck’s sake, stop, Geralt!”

Geralt blinked at him and stopped. His breath was heaving in his chest and he looked at Jaskier, who was staring back at him, wide-eyed. Then the Witcher's gaze dropped to the man at their feet and the carnage around him.

 _What the fuck have you just done_ , the voice whispered. _Now he’ll really hate you, butcher._

Jaskier placed his lute on the floor and walked up to Geralt, who shrunk away from him. The bard didn’t pay him any attention, passing him by to get to the downed man instead.

There, he knelt down, grabbed the dagger the man had dropped and dragged him upwards by his filthy shirt.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, but Jaskier ignored him. He set the dagger against the man’s throat. Geralt stared at them, at Jaskier’s face which had turned into a mask of fury, and at the silver scars on his hands. The voice in him died down and the numbness retreated from his mind. He moved around carefully to the bard’s side, keeping the whimpering man in easy reach.

“Do you still want to hear me scream?” Jaskier spat. He pressed the blade down, nicking his skin. A thin line of blood started running down the man’s throat.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said again, softly. The man made a wheezing sound and Jaskier, who had been staring at the blood on the man’s skin, seemed to snap out of some kind of reverie. He squared his shoulders and scowled at the man.

“We _could_ have solved this like civilised people,” he said, a deep growl in his voice.

The man’s eyes danced between him and Geralt, frightened.

“Tell us who sent you, and what the fuck you were planning to do with us.”

“Just you,” the man whispered. “Was only supposed to be you.”

“And what did you want with me?”

“The Cintran princess. The lion cub. You know where she is. The Baron sent us -”

Jaskier gave a snort.  
“The Princess of Cintra? She is dead, you asshole,” he growled.

Geralt carefully let his face go completely blank.

“But... after the fall... she escaped...”

“A thirteen-year old girl, in the middle of a war? You know what happens to little girls in wars.”

The man blanched.  
“You sang songs about her.”

“I also sang songs about kind dragons and about how terribly in love I was with a _Witcher_ ,” Jaskier snarled in disgust. Geralt swallowed heavily.

“Ergh,” made the man.

“So Mylord sent me here on a hare-brained scheme, and you were to trap me and interrogate me about that princess. There’s no vampire here, yes?”

The man gave a vague shrug, still trying to escape the dagger’s edge.

“And the son of the miller? Did you kill him yourself?”

“Buried him in the woods,” the man gasped.

“And what about him?”  
Jaskier nodded at Geralt. 

The man grimaced again.

“You didn't plan to torture information out of a Witcher,” Jaskier said slowly, disbelief creeping into his voice. “How fucking stupid are you?”

“He wasn't supposed to be here yet. He should have come a week later, alone,” the man whimpered.

“Right. So you just planned to murder him after you were done with me. I was supposed to tell you where she was, and then you would remove the one man who would have been able to stop you from finding her. Nobody cares about him, and nobody would suspect foul play if a bard vanished on a legendarily haunted mountain,” Jaskier mused, shaking his head. 

The man made an affirming noise.

“Didn’t work the first time,” Jaskier hissed, pressing the blade closer. “You even forgot about Yennefer. She's going to be pissed.”

“We thought she wouldn’t – er, he and her...”

“Ah, of course,” rumbled Jaskier. “Because you also believed it when the horny bard wrote a ballad about them splitting up?”

The man flushed a deep, embarrassed red.

“And why all this nonsense? Why do the Oakbridges suddenly dabble in Cintran politics?”

“Nilfgaard,” the man whispered. “The Baron has debts to pay, and Nilfgaard...”

“Ah, of course. So what are we going to do with you now?”

“I vote you let me deal with him,” Geralt said, as calmly as he could.

“Of course you do.”

“Please,” the man whimpered. A sharp smell rose from him and Geralt scowled. The man had pissed his pants.

“You’re just one of the monsters,” Jaskier whispered. “And you know what we do with monsters.”  
The man tried to curl away from the blade, desperately. Geralt took a deep breath, but before he could move, Jaskier had raised his hand. The dagger’s pommel came down on the man’s temple and he sagged down into a crumpled heap, unconscious.


	6. Chapter 6

Jaskier got up from his knees. They looked at each other for a long moment, then Geralt pulled the red cloak from the man's shoulders and nodded to the path, silently. Jaskier, with a last look at the unconscious man, hummed in agreement. 

The Witcher gathered up the lute from where it sat on the rocky ground and headed up the ravine path, slowly, Jaskier following in his steps.

Roach was still where Geralt had tethered her, waiting patiently. Pegasus was huddled by her side, miraculously unharmed, flanks still shaking and foam on his mouth. The dark horse, still saddled and bridled, was dancing nervously a few metres away from them. 

Jaskier made a hurt sound and hurried to Pegasus’ side, checking him over for damage and rubbing soothing hands over his side. Geralt untied Roach and noticed with a wince that her legs were covered in tiny cuts and bruises from their reckless ride. He murmured an apology in her twitching ear and ruffled her mane.

* * *

They followed the mountain path, leading the three horses behind them, and made it into the cover of the woods before Jaskier broke down. 

Geralt had been waiting for it. It had happened to all of them after they had left Kaer Morhen for their first real fights, the sudden drop of adrenaline and the onset of shock. The bloody dagger which Jaskier had been clutching this whole time slipped out of his grasp as he went white as a sheet and started shaking.

“Geralt,” he said. “I’m still really fucking mad at you, and I should really get the hell out of your life, and... But that was kind of. That was a lot. And I. Can you hold me, please?”  
His voice broke. 

Geralt was by his side in an instant, dropping reins, lute and sword, and drew him into a crushing embrace. Jaskier gave a hard sob, threw his arms around the Witcher’s neck and buried his face in his chest. He clutched at Geralt’s shoulders so hard it would leave bruises, hanging on for dear life while his body shook silently.

“You’re alright,” Geralt whispered in his hair, clutching him in return, stroking his back slowly, trying to ground him. “They didn’t touch you, you’re ok. I won’t let anything like that happen to you again. Or Yen will. If you’d rather. If you don’t -”  
He bit his lip and fell silent.

“This is the worst fucking Midsummer I’ve ever had,” Jaskier said a while later, after the sobs and the shakes had subsided. He let his forehead fall against Geralt’s shoulder for a moment, still enveloped in the Witcher’s arms. Then he withdrew and wiped at his eyes.  
“You’re covered in blood,” he said accusingly.

“I know. Sorry,” Geralt answered. “Didn’t know your voice could go that deep.”

Jaskier gave a hiccuping laugh.  
“I’m an _actor_ , Geralt. It’s what I do,” he said. “And it’s the way you sound when you try to be intimidating.”

“It was pretty fucking intimidating,” Geralt agreed. “Man pissed his pants.”

“Thank you for coming after me,” Jaskier said quietly. His eyes were rimmed in red, but his iris were still a clear grey that looked blue in the dusky darkness.

Geralt hummed.  
“I’m glad you didn’t kill that man.”

Jaskier nodded at that.  
“I didn’t mean the things I said just then. About you. And me.”

“I know,” Geralt said. Jaskier shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, and for a moment, Geralt wished he could pull the bard back into his own arms.  
“You really wrote a song about me and Yen splitting up?”

Jaskier sighed and wiped a tired hand over his face.  
“That was... before I met her again. It wasn’t very flattering. She made me promise never to sing it again. And I won't. Sorry.”

“I imagine she was very convincing,” nodded Geralt.

“Oh yes,” Jaskier agreed. “Extremely.”

“Hm. Want to get off this fucking mountain?”

“Gods, yes,” Jaskier groaned.

* * *

They made their way down the mountain, slowly, the tired horses behind them stumbling in the dark. Night had fallen abruptly, but the forest was still warm, the heat of the day trapped under its dense foliage, and the lazy chirp of crickets floated in the air around them. 

Jaskier walked by Geralt’s side, so close he could feel the warmth of the man coming off of him, too. They were both silent. Geralt was afraid to say anything else, and Jaskier, amazingly, seemed to have run out of words as well. It was as if they both knew that at the foot of the mountain, they would part once again, this time for good, and there were no words to stop it.

They came upon the fork in the road and the Witcher turned to the left, to the path leading into the valley and the crossroad under the oak tree. He wondered if the girls were still there, and if he’d get a chance to apologise to them, or if they had done the wise thing and already gotten as far away as possible. He vaguely hoped they hadn’t taken his saddle bags to sell the potions for profit. And if they had, well – it would make for a good early wedding gift. Then he noticed Jaskier wasn’t by his side anymore, and turned around. 

The bard was still standing at the fork in the road, his head tilted in thought.  
“That must be the path leading to the springs. Do you think they’re really there?” he asked. 

Geralt groaned.  
“No. Please don’t,” he said wearily.

“Come on, just a quick peak. I bet the water is amazing. And you look like you’re freezing.”

The Witcher sighed. His trousers were still soaked in ice water and blood, and though the night was warm, it wasn’t warm enough to have dried them.

“Come on, Geralt, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Didn’t you have enough adventure for one evening?” Geralt groused.

“And the horses are almost falling over, poor beasts. And it is good luck, bathing at midnight on Midsummer’s night,” the bard argued. He was already walking down the overgrown path, picking his way through the juniper bushes.

“You just made that up,” Geralt called after him as he followed.

“Did not.”

They made their way slowly through the thicket, fighting branches and prickly thorns until the forest made way for dry heather and they came to a cleft in the mountains.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, and stopped abruptly. Geralt joined him to survey the sight that lay before them. 

The cleft cradled the ruins of a temple, long abandoned and fallen into decay. Its rooftops and marble walls had fallen in and crumbled to pieces, and greenery had overtaken its courts and halls.  
Between the shattered pillars and broken statues were deep basins and pools of hot water, steaming slightly in the cooling air. A dense layer of mist lay over the temple and moonlight poured over it all, turning the still pools into mirrors of silver.

“This is amazing,” Jaskier whispered as he slowly circled around the broken columns and sunken flagstones. A few of the statues had been re-erected and Geralt saw candle wax at their feet, bits of burnt bone and scraps of paper fluttering in the wind. It smelled vaguely of honey and wine. 

A small owl sat in a nearby tree and observed them calmly as they wandered deeper into the site. They picked their way carefully around pools and deep basins, clambered over broken marble plinths and fallen shingles until their way was blocked by a low mound of rubble, overgrown with ivy and ferns. 

The pools were surprisingly free of filth and mud, filled with clear water and the occasional carpet of algae and water lily. Some had dried out, but a handful were apparently still connected to the thermal springs underneath the mountain. A hazy, dense vapour and a vague taste of sulphur lay over the whole place and turned it into something strange, otherworldly. A good place for an ambush, or a mythic monster to lay in wait for innocent prey, Geralt mused wearily.

But there were no monsters here, he knew, only the still waters, their horses, and Jaskier, who still wandered around the ancient place with the air of a sleepwalker. He squatted down at the edge of a pool to clear a bit of the floor from roots and vines and unearthed the corner of a mosaic, birds and frogs and fish.

He smiled up at Geralt in delight, their earlier fight seemingly forgotten. Geralt raised an eyebrow at the bard, nodding at the water. Jaskier hesitated for a long moment. Then he shrugged, and started stripping off his doublet and his boots. Geralt hastily turned around to secure the horses and rub them down perfunctorily, until he heard Jaskier slip into the steaming water with a sigh. He came to the pool’s edge with its birds and frogs and fish, and washed his bloodied face in the hot water.

“Don’t you want to come in?” the bard asked finally. Geralt shook his head, staring at his hands.  
“For old times’ sake? It’s really relaxing, I promise. Look, I’ll turn around. And Roach doesn’t mind seeing you naked.”

Geralt smiled against his own will. He shouldn’t do this, he shouldn’t draw the inevitable out any longer, and he sure as hell shouldn’t go skinny dipping with Jaskier, on Midsummer’s night, in an abandoned ancient place of worship. 

Jaskier was still mad at him. Jaskier would leave soon. The water did look good though, and his muscles ached, and his legs were still stinging after his detour through the ravine, so he carefully peeled off his wet boots. The red cloak followed, his leather jerkin and shirt and wet trousers and underthings, and then he lowered himself carefully into the steaming water. He gasped at the heat of it and dipped under the surface to rinse the last of the blood from his face and hair. He could feel the tie in his hair coming undone and shook it out.

“Told you so,” Jaskier said, as Geralt re-emerged again and settled against the edge of the pool with a groan. The heat worked itself slowly into his skin, his very bones, and he felt every muscle in his body relax. A veil of steam lay over the pool and he could see the vague figure of Jaskier floating about, like a spectre in the night. He tilted his head tiredly against the basin’s edge and stretched out his long limbs in the water. The steam was collecting in his eyes and on his face and he could feel it running down his cheeks. The surface of the pool fell still again.

A few long moments passed, and then there was movement again, and Jaskier came to his side, propping himself up on the tiled edge of the basin. He crossed his arms on it and resting his chin on his scarred hands. The water was lapping softly at his chest and his arms, droplets of water caught in the dark hair. His face was flushed from the heat of the spring. The bruises on his cheek had darkened into an angry looking shade of purple and Geralt frowned at the sight. Arnica, he thought fuzzily. There should be some of the salve left in his packs, and in a few days –

He looked away again.

“Listen,” Jaskier said, hesitantly breaking the stillness that hung over the water. “I’m sorry about kissing you. I know this isn’t what you want.”  
His voice was very low and Geralt felt the shiver of panic return despite the laxness of his muscles. 

He took a deep breath and blinked the moisture in his eyes away.  
“I’m sorry I made you run away,” he said at last. He found it hard to draw a clear breath and his voice sounded strange and thin in his ears.  
“I’m sorry about what I said to you on the mountain, after the dragon hunt. I didn’t mean it,” he continued.

“Oh,” Jaskier made, a very small, surprised sound. His hand crept on Geralt’s shoulder, the softest of pressures.  
“We can… we can go back to the way we were before, yeah? Forget about all this? Geralt?”

Geralt closed his eyes. He suddenly felt very fragile, like a blade heating up too quickly in a forge and quenched too quickly. As if the slightest movement could shatter him to pieces, and panic fluttered in his belly again.  
“No,” he whispered hoarsely.

Then he turned around in the water, set his palm against Jaskier’s bruised cheek, and kissed him.

“Oh,” Jaskier said again, gasped it against his mouth, breathlessly, or maybe Geralt was making the sound, he wasn’t certain. 

He kissed him again, deeper, licking into his mouth hungrily and then Jaskier threw his arms fully around his neck, scrabbling for purchase on Geralt’s wet, slippery shoulders. He almost climbed into his lap in his desire to be closer, and Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s back, under his tighs, to lift his naked body fully against himself with a groan.

“Wait,” Jaskier gasped, laughing, as Geralt released him for the space of a breath. “Slow down. Slow down, darling.”

Geralt made an impatient sound, but Jaskier laughed again and cradled his face to kiss him, softly and carefully and with unbearable tenderness. Geralt tilted his head to kiss him back and this time, the warmth in his belly didn’t try to smother him. It rose up and enveloped him, and Jaskier’s lips were on his, and he was alive, and he probably didn’t hate him after all, and Geralt drew him closer, closer, and drank the air from his lungs. 

They paused for a moment and Jaskier pressed his forehead lightly against Geralt’s, grinning wildly.  
“I have missed you so much, you have no idea,” he panted.

“I know you’d rather prefer an old god who’ll seduce you with songs,” Geralt said. He carefully let the bard slip back down into the water. 

Jaskier scoffed and kept his arms around the Witcher’s neck.  
“Oh, you are _plenty_ seductive right now,” he said and ran his hands over Geralt’s naked chest.

“I mean,” Geralt said and bit his lip. He could see Jaskier leaning closer, his eyes flickering down to his lips.

“If there had been a goddess here… and you had preferred to go with her, sacrifice yourself to her, vanish into legend. Whatever. I wouldn’t have stopped you,” he whispered. 

Jaskier drew back and scowled at him.  
“Why on earth would you say that?” he demanded. “Right when I finally got you to ravish me?”

“Ravish you?”, Geralt asked with an amused tilt of his eyebrow.

“Yes! Here I am, all ravish-able… ish,” Jaskier waved a dismissive hand in the air.

“Ravishing,” Geralt said.

“Whatever,” Jaskier said, and kissed him.  
“Point is,” he continued when he was done. “I’m really, truly, not interested in any gods or spirits right now. And won’t be for a while, if you catch my meaning. No offence to said gods,” he added quickly, glancing around.

Geralt dropped his gaze.  
“Would probably be safer for you than – than sticking with me.”

“You moron,” Jaskier said fondly and pushed Geralt’s wet hair away from his forehead, stroking his temple. “You literally just saved me from being brutalised by a bunch of… well, brutes.”

“You deserve better than me,” Geralt insisted, scowling back. “And I… I don’t deserve… I shouldn’t allow myself to get attached to you like that.”

“Geralt. Geralt, listen to me, you overgrown buffoon. You are allowed to _want_ people. You don’t need destiny or a fucking djinn as an excuse to fall in love,” Jaskier said insistently.  
“No, look at me,” he continued as Geralt tried to extricate himself from the bard’s arms. Jaskier grasped his chin and lifted his face, carefully, to catch his eyes.  
“You can just… go ahead and do that. Allow yourself to fall in love. Have somebody else take care of you for a change. Like humans do.”

“I’m not human, Jaskier,” Geralt said weakly.

“Don’t give a shit. In this regard, you are.”

“How can you know that?”

“Because I _know you_. I’ve followed you to the ends of the world. I know you well, Geralt of Rivia, and at some point, you might consider just believing me,” Jaskier said without rancour. 

Geralt swallowed thickly and kept his head bowed, pressing his face into Jaskier’s hands. Then he let himself tip forward, just a bit, to rest his head against the bard’s shoulder.  
“You’ll get hurt again if you stay,” he whispered.

“Did you hurt me on purpose?” Jaskier asked, determination in his voice.

“No!” Geralt said, drawing back.

“Are you planning on hurting me again?”

“No! Not if I can help it. Jaskier...”

“There! All’s fine then! We just need to talk about this stuff from time to time, ok? And I need you to... you know, not panic when I - ” He leant forward to kiss him again, carefully. “ - insist you are worthy of being loved.”

“Needs and emotions and stuff,” Geralt muttered, embarrassed. 

Jaskier laughed and tangled his fingers in his hair.  
“Yeah,” he said.

“Guess I might need my own lodestar for this, too. Might need you for that,” Geralt admitted. “And we need to… we might have to talk about… what about Yen?”

“Anything. Anything you need. And we can talk about our scary sorceress. But don’t run from me. Alright?” Jaskier whispered. After a moment, Geralt nodded. He felt strangely exhausted. Jaskier drew closer again, pressed his mouth against his, and Geralt allowed the heat to pull him under again.

* * *

They ended up on the mosaic tiles, warmed from below. Jaskier was poised above him, grinding into his hips, panting and laughing deliriously, kissing him like it was the easiest thing in the world. His warm weight was pressing him into the floor, grounding him, and Geralt ran his shaking hands over his sides, his back, caressing him with the lightest touch of his fingertips, until Jaskier laughed again and grabbed his hands to press them more firmly into his heated skin.

“Here. Like this, like this,” he murmured against Geralt’s neck, bracing his arm over Geralt’s head, and Geralt followed the pull of his hand, until they had found a rhythm and were both gasping and panting. 

There was a wild, low throb in his ears, but Geralt couldn’t tell if it was his own quickening heartbeat or the drums of the Midsummer celebrations in the distance. Jaskier pressed his lips against his jaw, the soft spot under his ear, the tendons in his neck, his shoulder and collarbones, and Geralt closed his eyes and surrendered to the sweet, low encouragements the bard whispered into his ears and to the clever, strong hands carding through his tangled hair, over his skin. 

Neither of them lasted very long, and Jaskier’s laughter turned into a shout as he gave a last erratic thrust and spilled over Geralt’s hand, his own twitching cock, his belly and Geralt followed him with a moan.

“This is the best fucking Midsummer I’ve ever had,” Jaskier murmured breathlessly as he collapsed into the Witcher’s arms. He pressed his face against Geralt’s temple, who used the opportunity to brazenly steal another kiss from his lips. His arms were still locked firmly around Jaskier’s hips and back.  
“Ah, drat. Now we’ll have to wash again.”

But instead of moving away, they stayed on the floor, by the birds and the frogs and the fish and each other. A shiver ran over Jaskier’s cooling skin and he burrowed closer into Geralt’s arms. The Witcher untangled himself carefully after a moment to grab the cloak from the heap of discarded clothing at the pool’s edge, and returned to spread it over them both. Jaskier held out his arms to him and Geralt, still overwhelmed and dizzy, came to him, put his head down on his sternum and revelled silently in the feeling of the bard’s hands stroking his shoulders.

Maybe there was something sacred about the springs after all, Geralt mused, fuzzily. He thought he could feel the power of the place – of the Midsummer night – thrumming faintly under his skin, prickling behind his ribs. Perhaps there had been a sacrifice made here tonight, but not the one they had been thinking of, and the reward gained wholly different from what either of them had expected. There had certainly been something healed between them, he admitted to himself. So much for destiny, though. So much for thwarting fate.

“That was,” Geralt murmured. “That was. This is... It's. Ah, fuck.”

Jaskier pulled at his hair in gentle rebuke.  
“Do you want to try that again, love?” he whispered, voice heavy, nearly asleep.

Geralt took a deep breath and, after a moment of hesitation, heaved himself up on his elbows with a grunt to stare down at Jaskier. The bard stared back at him, blinking. It had become too dark to see clearly, with the moon hanging low on the horizon, but the Witcher only needed starlight to see Jaskier's open, vulnerable, searching expression. He thought he understood what he was searching for now.

The night had grown quiet and in the stillness that had consumed the world, Geralt leant down to Jaskier’s ear, hid his face in his neck, cradled safely in the man's arms, and whispered roughly, as if imparting a treasured secret:  
“I love you. Damn it to hell, I love you.”

The earth didn’t open up beneath him to swallow him whole. Jaskier made a small sound the Witcher was unable to classify, but he decided it was probably a good one, because right after, Jaskier pulled his head down to kiss him, more tender than Geralt deserved.

“Oh darling, darling,” Jaskier murmured, caressing his face. “I take everything back. You _do_ understand romance.”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Jaskier swatted at him, doing a bad job at pretending to be affronted, and Geralt eased himself down to his chest again. The bard nodded off soon after, wrapped up in Geralt’s warm body and the scarlet cloak. The Witcher remained awake, idly listening to Jaskier’s slowing heartbeat and the subdued sounds of the night around him.

He had almost drifted off into sleep himself when he suddenly realised the sounds he was listening to formed the words of a song, and he jerked awake again. 

At the edge of the forest, on an overturned column, a woman sat, wrapped in a light linen cloak, a wreath of olive leaves threaded through her dark hair. An owl perched on her shoulder, talons gently closed around her skin. She was singing very quietly, almost beyond the threshold of even Geralt’s advanced senses. 

It was a low, murmuring song, like icy water tinkling in a shallow brook, or the sound of wine spilled on a road. The words of the song were in no language Geralt could understand. She was winding a skein of scarlet yarn on her arms, the movement of her hands slow and certain and as mesmerising as her song, her fingers sorting the thread almost absent-mindedly as she gazed at him.

Geralt wrapped his arms tightly around Jaskier and nodded at the woman. She seemed to consider the sight before her for a moment. Then her lips moved in a slight smile, and between one blink of the Witcher’s eyes and the next, she had faded away into the Midsummer night.


	7. Epilogue

“Do you think Mother Nenneke will be mean to me again?” Jaskier asked as they walked through the gatehouse of the temple, horses safely lodged in the stables.

It had been a few rather good weeks, once Midsummer had gone and they had sorted out the business of the Baron Oakbridge. They had managed to stick together without murdering each other or attempting to drown their sorrows in the arms of wild gods. 

So Geralt, without quite making the conscious decision, had aligned their paths more and more with the road that would eventually lead them to the temple of Melitele, and Ciri, and Yen.

“Depends on whether you can keep your hands to yourself this time,” Geralt grunted.

Jaskier sighed melodramatically.  
“Oh, I can’t make any promises as to that…”  
His hand landed on Geralt’s arse, fondling him through the tight leather pants. Geralt swatted him away, good-naturedly, and failed to suppress a grin. 

Then a thin, high voice yelled: “Geralt!”

A small, long-limbed figure dropped out of a cedar tree in front of them and launched itself into the Witcher’s arms. He caught the girl with a huff and whirled her around while she screeched in his ear, pale blonde mane flying. He set her down again carefully and crushed her in a hug, holding her close for another long moment.

“Where the hell have you been?” Ciri demanded, as he released her again.

“How the fuck have you grown so much?” he answered.

“Don’t swear in front of the bard, children,” Jaskier said, fingering the strap of his lute nervously. 

Ciri beamed at him from under Geralt’s arm.  
“You! Will you finally teach me to play?”

“He will most certainly not,” a new voice interrupted her, sharp and demanding. Geralt wasn’t certain how long Yennefer had been standing there, surveying them all, but there was a certain glint in her eyes that made him suspect she had been watching them for quite a bit now.  
“What is going on here?” she asked. “What are you two… ?”

Jaskier started to blush slightly and smiled at her sheepishly. The sorceress cast a sharp look at Geralt and must have skimmed the truth right from his thoughts – not a terribly accomplished feat, given how it was rather at the forefront of his mind these days – because she threw her hands in the air in exasperation.  
“Oh, sweet chaos, _finally_!”

The men stared at her in astonishment. Yennefer gave a huff and stalked over to Jaskier to pull him into a fierce hug. The bard squeaked in surprise. She pulled back quickly before he could return the embrace and pushed him back to glance up and down his body, assessing. Her gaze landed on his ungloved hands. 

She darted a knowing, approving look at the Witcher, and before he could puzzle _that_ out, she had dragged him down to place a searing kiss on his lips. Then she grabbed Jaskier’s wrist to drag him away into the house. The bard grinned over his shoulder at Geralt, mouthing _See? Good luck!_ at him. 

Geralt smiled and followed along after them, Ciri bouncing by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given that Dandelion’s horse in the books is called Pegasus, and this is commented upon as fitting for a bard, it can be reasonably theorised that Witcherland had antique civilisations similar to that of Europe, and thus a whole pantheon of ancient gods and their associated traits and legends.  
> According to Greek mythology, the winged horse Pegasus sprung from the slain Medusa, was tamed by the goddess Athena and is a symbol for poetic endeavours and inspiration. Athena and her Roman counterpart Minerva was connected to several sites of sacred springs and natural thermal springs, like Aquae Sulis in Roman Britain (= Bath) where her cult was conflated with that of the Celtic goddess Sulis. She was a patron of music, poetry and medicine; wisdom, commerce, defensive warfare; of weaving, spinning, and the crafts. Some of her attributes are owls and the hellebore plant, and one of her feast days is at the Ides of June, roughly one week before the summer solstice.
> 
> All of this occurred to me _after_ I had written the first draft of this story. Thus I claim that Athena / Minerva inserted herself into this story without my doing or permission. I only refined some details after making this admittedly rather strange discovery. I only made the connection because I was reading the current issue of the [Hellebore zine](https://helleborezine.bigcartel.com/) during writing, idly googled the plant, and stumbled over the goddess who had obviously been waiting in the wings. I hope she is pleased.


End file.
